AFTERMATH Copyright © 1987 by Robert Lynn Aspnn and Lynn Abbey Dramatis Personae copynght © 1987 by Face of Chaos, Inc Introduction copynght © 1987 by Robert Lynn Aspnn "Cade" copyright © 1987 by Mark C Perry "Wake of the Riddler" copyright © 1987 by Paradise "Inheritor" copynght © 1987 by David A Drake "Mercy Worse Than None" copyright © 1987 by Brunner Fact and Fiction Limited "Seeing is Believing (But Love is Blind)" copyright © 1987 by Face of Chaos, Inc "Homecoming" copyright © 1987 by Andrew J Orfiilt UNEASY ALLIANCES Copyright © 1988 by Robert Lynn Aspnn and Lynn Abbey Dramatis Personae copyright © 1988 by Face of Chaos, Inc Introduction copyright © 1988 by Face of Chaos, Inc "Slave Trade" copyright © 1988 by Robert Lynn Aspnn "The Best of Fnends" copynght © 1988 by C J Cherryh "The Power of Kings" copynght © 1988 by Jon DeCles "Red Light, Love Light" copyright © 1988 by Paradise, Inc "A Sticky Business" copyright © 1988 by C S Williams "The Promise of Heaven" copynght © 1988 by Robin W Bailey "The Vision of Lalo" copyright © 1988 by Diana L Paxson STEALERS' SKY Copyright © 1989 by Robert Lynn Aspnn and Lynn Abbey Dramatis Personae copynght © 1989 by Face of Chaos, Inc Introduction copyright © 1989 by Robert Lynn Aspnn "Night Work" copyright © 1989 by Andrew J Offutt "The Incompetent Audience" copynght © 1989 by Jon DeCles "Our Vintage Years" copyright © 1989 by Duane McGowen "Quicksilver Dreams" copynght © 1989 by Diana L Paxson "Winds of Fortune" copynght © 1989 by C J Cherryh "The Fire in a God's Eye" copyright © 1989 by Robin W Bailey "Web Weavers" copynght © 1989 by Face of Chaos, Inc "To Begin Again" copynght © 1989 by Robert Lynn Aspnn All rights reserved "THIEVES' WORLD" and "SANCTUARY" are trademarks belonging to Robert Lynn Aspnn and Lynn Abbey This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission For information, address the Berkley Publishing Group All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental Endpaper maps by James R Odbert Published by arrangement with The Berkley Publishing Group 200 Madison Avenue New York, New York 10016 Printed in the United States of America CONTENTS AFTERMATH 7 UNEASY ALLIANCES 207 STEALERS' SKY 385 Quality Printing and Binding by R R Donnelley & Sons Company 1009 Stoan Street Crawfordsville, IN 47933 USA AFTERMATH CONTENTS Dramatis Personae, Lynn Abbey ..................... 5 Introduction, Robert Lynn Asprin .................... 11 Cade, Mark C. Perry ............................ 14 Wake of the Riddler, Janet Morris .................... 49 Inheritor, David Drake ........................... 79 A Mercy Worse Than None, John Brunner .............. 131 Seeing Is Believing (But Love Is Blind), Lynn Abbey ................................. 153 Homecoming, Andrew Ojfutt ....................... 177 AFTERMATH Dramatis Personae The Townspeople AHDIOVIZUN; AHDIOMERVIZ; AHDIO—Proprietor ofSly's Place, a legend- ary dive within the Maze. AYE-GOPHLAN—Captain of the palace guard before the arrival of Prince Kadakithis. Now he is one of three men charged with keeping the peace in Sanctuary. LALO THE LIMNER—Street artist gifted with magic he does not fully un- derstand. GILLA—His indomitable wife. GANNER—Their middle son, slain during the False Plague riots of the previous winter which signaled the end of severe civil unrest in Sanctuary. VANDA—Their daughter, employed as nursemaid to the Beysib at the palace. HAKIEM—Storyteller and confidant extraordinaire. HORT—Son of a fisherman and now Hakiem's sometime apprentice. 6 AFTERMATH JUBAL—Prematurely aged former gladiator. Once he openly ran Sanc- tuary's most visible criminal organization, the hawkmasks; now he works behind the scenes. MASHA ZIL-INEEL—Midwife whose involvement in the destruction of the Purple Mage enabled her to move from the Maze to respectability up- town. MELILOT—Owner of a scriptorium where letters can be written or trans- lated. MRADHON vis—Nisibisi adventurer and sometime spy. He has betrayed almost everyone and been betrayed in return, but he is a consummate survivor. MYRTIS—Madam of the Aphrodisia House. SHAFRALAIN—Sanctuary nobleman who can trace his lineage and his money back to the days ofllsig's glory. ESARIA—His nubile daughter. EXPIMILIA—His wife. CUSHARLAIN—His cousin. A customs inspector and investigator. SNAPPER JO—A friend who survived the destruction of magic in Sanctu- ary. Now employed as a bartender in the Vulgar Unicorn. ZIP—Bitter young terrorist. Leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary (PFLS). Now he and his remaining fighters have been designated as officials responsible for peace in the city. The S*danzo ILLYRA—Half-blood S'danzo seeress with True Sight. Wounded by PFLS in the False Plague Riots. DUBRO—Bazaar blacksmith and husband to Illyra. ARTON—Their son, marked by the gods as part of the emerging diety known as the Stormchildren. He was sent to the Bandaran DRAMATIS PERSONAE 7 Islands for his education and safety—and to remove him from Sanctuary. LILLIS—Their daughter, slain in the False Plague riots. TREVYA—A newborn orphan girl placed in their care by Walegrin. MOONFLOWER—S'danzo seeress of remarkable obesity who was slain by Beysib guards who had mistakenly attacked her husband. THE TERMAGANT—Oldest of the S'danzo women practicing her craft in Sanctuary. The Magicians ENAS YORL—Quasi-immortal mage cursed with eternal life and a con- stantly changing physical form. ISCHADE—Necromancer and thief. Her curse is passed to her lovers who die from it. Her rivalry with Roxane drew her into the murky realm of Sanctuary's politics from which she has yet to extricate herself. ROXANE; DEATH'S QUEEN—Nisibisi witch. Nearly destroyed when Storm- bringer purged magic from Sanctuary, she is trapped inside a warded house and a dead man's body. HAUGHT—One-time apprentice oflschade who betrayed her and is now trapped with Roxane. TASFALEN—The dissolute Rankan nobleman, one oflschade's lov- ers, whose body has become Roxane's prison. STRICK; TORAZELAN STRICK TIFIRAQA— White Mage who has made Sanctuary his home. He will help anyone who comes to him, but there is always a Price, sometimes trivial and sometimes not, for his aid. AVENESTRA; AVNEH—Once a preteen prealcoholic barfly at Sly's Place. Now Strick's very young receptionist with a sweet tooth. FRAX—Former palace guardsman, now Strick's fiercely loyal guard. WINTSENAY; WINTS—A down-and-out young Ilsig whose life has improved immeasurably since he began working for Strick. AFTERMATH Visitors in Sanctuary JARVEENA—A woman, once Melilot's apprentice, who. with Enas Tori's help, unveiled a plot to assassinate Prince Kadakithis shortly after his arrival in Sanctuary. In the intervening years she has been employed as Melilot's trading agent, and her many hideous scars have been slowly fading. SAMLOR HIL SAMT, Trader from the north. His sister died in Sanctuary and his business sometimes brings him back to the city. STAR—His seven-year-old niece. A single lock of white grows amid her black hair. The Beysibs claim this is the mark of the favor of their gods and the child does seem to have some strange abilities. The Rankans Living in Sanctuary CHENAYA; DAUGHTER OF THE SUN—^ beautiful and powerful young woman who is fated never to lose a fight. She is the prince's cousin and is working to raise an army of gladiators which will place him on the imperial throne. PRINCE KADAKITHIS—Charismatic but somewhat naive half-brother of the assassinated emperor, Abakithis. KAMA; JES—Tempus's daughter. 3rd Commando assassin. Sometime lover of Critias. Zip, and Molin Torchholder. MOLIN TORCHHOLDER; TORCH—Archpriest of Sanctuary's wargod (whichever deity that is at the moment). Architect for the rebuilt walls of Sanctuary. Supreme bureaucratic administrator of the city. RANKAN 3RD COMMANDO—Mercenary company founded by Tempus Thales and noted for its brutal efficiency. GAYLE—A member of that company. STEPSONS; SACRED BANDERS—Members of a mercenary unit loyal to Tempus. Their years in Sanctuary have been among the worst in their history and they are eager to leave for anywhere else. DRAMATIS PERSONAE CRITIAS; CRIT—Longtime mercenary in the company. An intelli- gence gatherer and assistant to Tempus. Also the partner of Straton, though that pairing has been in disarray for some time now. STRATON; STRAT; ACE—Partner of Critias. Injured by the PELS at the start of the False Plague riots. He has been Ischade's lover and though her curse has not killed him, most of his former associates count him among Sanctuary's damned. TEMPUS THALES; THE RIDDLER—Nearly immortal mercenary, a partner of Vashanka before that god's demise; commander of the Stepsons; cursed with a fatal inability to give or receive love. WALEGRIN—Rankan army officer assigned to the Sanctuary garrison where his father had been slain by the S'danzo many years before. He is now one of three officers responsible for the peace in Sanctuary. He is also Illyra's half-brother. The Beysib SHUPANSEA; SHU-SEA—Head of the Beysib exiles in Sanctuary; mortal avatar of the Beysib mother goddess. Lover of Prince Kadakithis whom she wishes to marry. CHABOSTU; CHA-BOS—A daughter born before Shupansea was driven into exile. INTRODUCTION Robert Lynn Asprin Military units have never been noted for their punctuality, and the Stepsons were no exception. Even though their departure was originally planned for shortly after dawn, it was nearly noon before the first pair actually swung aboard their horses and headed off amid waves and good- natured catcalls from their comrades. This was not a regular army unit, but a free company of mercenaries, so the formations and columns one might expect in a troop relocation were nowhere in evidence. Rather, the men set out on their journey in pairs or small groups as they were ready, with no thought to waiting for the others. Indeed, it was doubtful they would even all take the same route to their new posting. However disor- ganized or leisurely their departure might be though, one thing was clear. The Stepsons were leaving Sanctuary. Relatively few townspeople had gathered to witness their passing, but the first pair waved at them anyway as they set off. No one returned their salutation. Of the watchers, two men were notable if only from the diversity of the pair. One was old, his hair more silver-white than gray, while the other was a youth barely out of his teens. The younger was dressed in the humble garb of the town's lower class, while the elder man's finery marked him as one who moved in richer, perhaps even royal, circles, That they were together, however, was never in question. Not simply because they stood together and exchanged comments, though that Would have been sufficient evidence for most. Even more apparent was their manner. While they conversed freely, their eyes never met, but instead remained focused on what was going on around them. Close 12 AFTERMATH attention was paid to the departing pair of Stepsons as if attempting to memorize their appearance and gear, then switched once more to the preparation of the remaining mercenaries. Were they not so open in their scrutiny, the two might be mistaken for spies. As it was, they were ignored, for neither was unknown around the city. The younger was Hort, a lowly storyteller; the older, Hakiem, once a talespinner himself and mentor to Hort, was now adviser to the ruler of the Beysib. "Well, it actually looks like they're going." "Of course," Hakiem replied without looking at his friend. "Did you doubt it?" "Yes, and so did you." Hort smiled. "But that didn't keep us from being out here at dawn. We should have known that even if anything happened, it wouldn't happen until later." "True enough. Still, if we had slept in and they had decided to get underway on time, we would have missed it completely." The younger man snuck a sideways glance at Hakiem. "I can see where that would affect me," he said, "but why should it make any difference to you? Your storytelling days are behind you now." "Call it habit," the old man grunted. "Besides, an adviser needs infor- mation as much as a storyteller, and the best information is still that which you gather yourself." The men fell silent as another pair of Stepsons rode by "Well, it actually looks like they're going," Hort repeated, almost to himself. Hakiem hawked and spat noisily in the dust. "Good riddance!" he declared with sudden vehemence. "The sooner they're clear of the town, the better it will be for all of us! There has been nothing but chaos and death in the city since they arrived. Maybe now things will return to normal!" Hort struggled, but lost his brief bout with silence- "As I recall, Hakiem, there was chaos and death in Sanctuary long before the Stepsons put in their appearance. I don't see where they've been any worse than Jubal's hawkmasks used to be ... or your pet fish- eyed friends for that matter- It's wrong to try to blame the Stepsons for all our problems . . . and dangerous to think things will return to nor- mal when they've left. I don't think I even know what normal is any- more." Hakiem turned away, his eyes avoiding both Hort and the departing Stepsons. "You're right, of course," he admitted. "Though the Beysib have been far gentler with our town than the Stepsons, who were supposed to be INTRODUCTION 13 guarding it. Water does not flow upstream, nor does time run backward. Sanctuary will never be what it was. Hawkmasks, Stepsons, Beysib - . . they've all had their impact on the town, and their presence will never be completely removed. Even the new laborers who are here to work on the walls will change our lives, though in what ways we have yet to find out. All we can do is what we've always done: watch. Watch and hope." "Speaking of the new laborers," Hort said with an almost forced casu- ainess, "have you heard anything of people disappearing?" "I assume you mean dropping out of sight without turning up dead later," Hakiem retorted drily. "That's right." The youth nodded. "Able-bodied men you'd think would be able to take care of themselves. I've heard of three so far." "It's news to me. Still, I'll keep my ears open." A group of Stepsons walked their horses by, not even looking at the assembled watchers. Though he would never admit it openly, the withdrawal of the Step- sons as well as the Rankan 3rd Commando from Sanctuary concerned Hakiem much more than the disappearance of a few common laborers. He wondered how much of what was happening in town Hort was aware of and simply not commenting on and how much he was actually oblivi- ous to. There was a fight brewing. A contest of wills, if not swords, between the town and the Rankan Empire. He did not for a moment believe that it was coincidence that the Stepsons were being pulled out of town just when the tax issue was reaching a head. The question was, would they be back? If the empire tried to enforce its orders by force, would the Step- sons be the whip for the empire or the shield for the town? Or would they stay away, maintaining a mercenaries' neutrality, and not return until the matter was resolved ... if they returned at all? The old man studied faces, but could not find a clue to the future written anywhere: neither a hint of the future in the faces of the merce- naries, nor a glimmer of realization of the stakes that were being played for in those of the townsfolk. CADE Mark C. Perry In another time, in another place, he could have been something else. He could have been a hero, or a general, a pnest, or a king But he was born in Sanctuary and that made him a killer. Cade stood on a low hill looking down on the city. Sanctuary. He turned his head and spat Sanctuary, the capital of hell He had left the city eleven years ago, after killing a man, his first Now he was back, to kill again Somewhere in that cesspit his brother's body lay rotting, all his bones cracked by some torturer It was that someone whom Cade was going to kill The wind shifted and the stench of the city assaulted him After the long nde through the clean desert the smell was a physical force, full of wet decay, the smell of man at his worst. Victim and hunter were all the same in Sanctuary The evil of his birthplace was alive, active, infecting everything that came into contact with it. The sun was going down, dusk slowly covered the decrepitude of the city's ancient buildings, but the shadows could not hide it all, even from this distance. Cade was surprised to see a new wall going up around the town but it hardly helped the view, for surely that wall was not so much to keep enemies out as the inhabitants in. Even a madman would see there was no gain to be had by conquering Sanctuary Cade smiled to himself at the thought Attack Sanctuary—better to fight for a beggar's bowl He turned to face west. A house or something burned sullenly there, ignored by the inhabitants of Downwind, the worst part of the whole place. Downwind . And that, he told himself, is a place and a name you promised never to CADE 15 have anything to do with again But of course he knew promises meant nothing m hell . . If Sanctuary could be called the place of his birth, it was Downwind that had created him There he had lived between the age of six and sixteen There he had learned about the world, the real world, the truth behind all the lies that men blind themselves with He had learned about fear, fear in his poor brother's eyes, who had always tried to protect his younger sibling, even though it was Cade who was the real protector He learned of despair, as the money became scarcer and the food rarer, and their mother did anything, anything, so that she could keep her little family together He remembered her tears when she heard he'd joined the gang, she was dead by the time he became their warlord His time with the Demons taught him the most valuable lesson of Sanctuary He learned about blood, and death Cade was so talented then, talented in the harsh passion of the violent The street brought out the blood in all its miserable inhabitants, but some like Cade were born for blood and shed it and lost it with equal calm He called it the waterfall, though he was eighteen before he ever saw a real one. It was the moment when you either let go and hit until you fell or you were pulled off and fear never entered into it at all That was the mark of the talent, because some could do it when they were backed in a comer, all could do it sometimes, but Cade would do it every time He wondered if any of the Demons were still there probably not, they were either dead, or they had gotten out and would never come back What did it matter^ They were all punks anyway Still, some of them might remember him. He laughed thinking about it, but there was no humor m that sound Wouldn't they be surprised to see him agam^ The local boy come back in triumph He had made good by Sanctuary standards He was nch beyond most men's imagination, and powerful, very powerful He had turned his talent into a very profitable art The art of death. For a fee he killed He was more than an assassin and less than d mur- derer. For he did kill with passion, but never pleasure He killed in the name of mankind to free his victims from lies For Sanctuary had taught Cade the most valuable of all lessons, it had taught him the truth In all its pain and agony, poverty and despair, was written the LAW, in ironclad runes of blood And the LAW was one simple word Hell . . For the world was not a hell, he knew that, it was the hell, the only true hell A man lived a life of pain, no matter who or what he was, the punishment was daily When he died, he either went somewhere better, 16 AFTERMATH or his spirit was annihilated for all time. It was simple really: the good, they went to their just desserts; the evil could sink no further, so they were destroyed. All this ran through his thoughts as he stared down at the place he hated most. He was little concerned. He believed he had only killed the genuinely good or the genuinely evil, never those in-between. Now he was going to kill his brother's murderer and he was worried. What if the killer was neither good nor evil? What if he had not made the final choice —could Cade kill him then? After all, he was no soldier like his unknown father, butchering because someone told him to. He was very careful in accepting contracts, very careful in his death-dealing that whomever he brought the final moment to was either good or evil, either free or doomed. What if ... "Enough!" he cried out loud. Somewhere in the Maze TerreFs family waited in fear, in fear for their lives and in agony over the dead man they had loved so much. Cade would protect them. Terrel would have wanted that, but Cade would do more; he would use them as he had always used anyone he needed. Use them to find the murderer and for the first time in his long career he would not kill cleanly or quickly. No matter who had to die, or why, this time Cade would have vengeance! He knelt down and cleared a space on the ground at his feet. He withdrew a dagger and began to make marks in the dirt. Here a slash for Tempus; there a curve for Ischade, others for Molin Torchholder, Jubal, Chenaya, the Stepsons, the PFLS, the Rankan 3rd Commando, Enas Yorl ... He had run out of room. Sanctuary had managed to become the most dangerous place in the empire. It was truly hell's own capital. And all its demon princes were fighting for its bitter rule. His information was incomplete. He could barely believe Tempus would stay here with the whole empire falling apart around him. And if Tempus went ... he scratched out the marks for the Rankan 3rd Com- mando, and the Stepsons. He shook his head; it helped, but not by much. Then he scratched in a fish eye. Beysibs. Now what the hell were they? Were they like other men? What happened when they died? Too, too many questions. If it had been just magic, or men ... but there were gods here now. All sorts of godly manifestations had taken place here, though his people had claimed that things had quieted down of late. Hardly a comforting thought- He gripped the handle of the dagger tightly. It was all too unclear, too many random factors. Even Cade could not keep himself hidden from the gods, frauds though they were. Still, part of him hoped the trail would lead to one of these gods- He had only ever killed one obscure demigod. CADE 17 To cast down one of the great ones, those masters of the great lie, ah, now that would nearly make Terrel's horrid death worthwhile. There was no point in going in quietly; this town was a catastrophe just waiting to happen. Why, any of these—he ground his foot into the dirt erasing the names—could be his target. Or all of them. Many of them would have the ability to find him; some would certainly know his name, others would be intelligent enough to make the connection between him and Terrel. No, he would simply advertise his presence and let the killers come to him, or others approach him with information. He stood up. "This is going to be messy," he said to the empty land around him. But he would slip into the city later tonight and check in with his people before he revealed himself. "I'm coming home," he whispered. Cade took another sip of the wine, his black eyes searching the face of the man across from him at the oaken table. Targ was a good man. He had never failed a mission, but he was dangerous. Cade would have to be very careful how he used this one, very careful. "So," Cade said, "I was right about Tempus and the others. Still, there are quite a few with power remaining." "The streets are safer than even a few months ago," Targ answered, his thick hand digging in his beard. 'The coalition seems to be holding, at least for now." Just then the door to the house was opened. A young woman dressed in a fine gown and a dark shawl walked in. "I told you not to go out at night," Targ said, though his voice carried no concern. "I was just checking on Sarah," she answered, staring unabashedly at Cade, who simply stared back. Targ waved a hand at Cade. "Our employer," he said. Marissa stood by the door, a little unsure of how to react. "Sit," Cade said, watching as the woman seated herself, near Targ, but not too near. So, Cade thought to himself, she fears him. I wonder how much she knows. "Targ," he said aloud, "says you have done well. My brother's wife trusts you." "Yes." She nodded. "She and I have become friends, lord." Cade smiled slightly at the title but he didn't correct her. "She doesn't know that you work for me." "No, lord, she waits for you, knowing that you will, ah, help." "Understand one thing." Cade's voice was harsh. "I have come for ^enge, nothing more." "I think Sarah understands, lord." 18 AFTERMATH "And tell me how does it feel to be the Lady Marissa?" "Better"—she smiled—"than it did to be the slave girl Donan." Cade did not answer her smile. Disguised as an old merchant, he had bought the girl's freedom. Then two months ago he had sent her here with Targ to set up a base for him. It was no accident that the house next to this was his sister-in-law Sarah's. He tasted the wine while the other two waited for him to speak. Cade nodded his head once. Good, they had done well, the girl in particular- She hardly resembled the anemic creature he had freed so many months ago. She had been a find, that one. Able to speak court Rankene, and read and write: a rare find And she was strong. He could sense that in people. After what this girl had been through it was surprising she retained her sanity. Cade had seen the scars that covered her back and thighs. He liked her; she was good and if he didn't need her he would free her from life's black curse, but first . . . "Some here might still know me," he said. "Terrel did not hide the fact that it was I who bought his house, and his shop." He stood up. "There- fore I see no reason for further subterfuge on my part." He picked up his sword belt and buckled it about his waist. "Tomorrow," he addressed the two, "I will ride into town at dawn. I will go straight to Terrel's home. Let those who might care know that I am here. You two must remember: You do not know me, I do not know you. Since Lady Marissa is a friend of Sarah's, and I will be staying at her house, we will have plenty of opportunity to get to know one another." He smiled and turned to go. "Ah, one last thing, Targ." The mercenary just looked up. "Tomor- row, go to the guild. Get a few guards for this house, especially a good bowman. From now on I want both houses under constant surveillance." "You expect someone to make a move?" Targ asked. Cade shrugged. "If they do not, I will." And with that he was gone- Targ got up and locked the door. He could see no trace of Cade in the night, and if he couldn't, no one he knew could. "Well, what do you think?" he said. "I don't know. He's strange," Marissa answered, "scary." Targ snorted. "He is a fanatic, a madman." Targ sat down and reached for the wine. "And probably the most dangerous man I have ever met." There was fear in Targ's gray eyes, and that made Marissa shiver. What- ever could scare the strange mercenary was nothing she wanted to deal with. What had that old merchant Rotten her involved in? CADE 19 Targ opened the trapdoor to the roof, climbing up the ladder with silent agility. His sensitive nose welcomed the fresh air. The roof was flat, and a thin three-foot wall surrounded it. Targ moved to the wall, peering over at the house next door. The two-story building was cloaked in shad- ows; no light showed from behind the thickly shuttered windows. Targ stared at the dark shape for a long time, trying to spot any figures that might be concealed in the shadows, but he could detect nothing. His thick hands fondled the pommel of his sword. His eyes burned red in the night. Even if Cade was hidden somewhere in those shadows, Targ knew from long experience that he would be invisible. Cade. He swore under his breath. Cade. He knew Cade was uncomfortable with this job; it wasn't their usual sort of job. This wasn't for money, or for the great war he always spoke about; this was for Cade. Targ looked over the roofs of the town; some- where out there a murderer, a torturer was hiding, but it wouldn't do any good: Cade would find him and Targ refused to even try to imagine what that madman's vengeance would be ... No, this wasn't their usual sort of job at all. Targ shifted nervously, sniffing at the wind. The air carried its own messages, its own secrets, and the scents spoke to Targ, as they never could to an ordinary man- Sometimes Targ wondered if Cade was a man. What really went on in his mind? Who could say? Only Cade, and he wasn't talking. But together the two had shared much. If killing and blood could be considered sharing. How many had the two killed? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? Targ had quit counting long ago. Cade hated this place, hated Sanctuary. Only his brother's death could have brought him back. Targ knew Terrel had been the only person Cade really cared about and now he was dead. "Gods," Targ mouthed. He heard a cry. It sounded like a woman. The lonely sound was lost in the wind. Was it fear in that sound, or madness? In Sanctuary it was hard to tell the two apart. Perhaps he should go and see, perhaps . . . but no. His illusions of being the great hero were long gone, lost in that same night that had taken his ordinary mortality away. He would help Cade as he always did. First because Cade only asked him to help kill those who deserved it, the real bastards. And second because Cade knew, knew of his curse and never showed fear, or disgust ... or much of anything. How could he explain to Cade that he liked Sanctuary? There was something here, something that soothed and calmed the curse. He had only needed to kill twice since he came here. For two months he had lived with the slave girl and successfully hidden the truth from her. And >0 AFTERMATH both of the kills had been ones who deserved it ... Targ growled softly In his throat, remembering the screams and the blood. Murderers and rapists both, they had deserved it. They had. He had heard there was a vampire here, Ischade. A vampire. In all the years he had been fighting the great war, never had he met a real vam- pire, or for that matter a real werewolf. Cade watched the sun rise slowly, its light defining the harsh edge of Sanctuary. He reached back and slowly braided his long hair. It was an Ilsigi warbraid, something not seen in Sanctuary in a long time, some- thing Cade had to do. He was returning, but he wouldn't do it quietly, or simply. He was back and the braid was his way of making one thing clear: No one and nothing would make him bow. He was not the same boy who had run away so long ago; run with the blood of a merchant on his hands, blood he had never meant to shed. But one thing was still the same. He had left as a killer and he was returning as one. He gently stroked his horse on the nose, smiling as it tried to take a nip at his new braid, then lifted himself smoothly into the saddle and took a moment to settle his weapons. He was no warrior, not in the normal sense- He did not fight in great battles, riding for honor and glory. He'd just as soon use a knife or a garrote in the dark as swing a sword, but that didn't mean he wasn't a dangerous swordsman. Indeed, only the best could match him in bladework, and even fewer were as adept with no weapons at all. He had always known he would come back, though until this moment he had denied it. He had taken the gifts of Sanctuary and now he would bring them back . . . He kicked the horse, heading it toward the main gate that pierced the half-finished wall. He sat straight in the saddle, comfortable with the gait of the horse. His cloak was thrown back to reveal the rich armor beneath. His sword alone was worth more money than most Sanctuarites could ever hope to see in their lives. He smiled- It appealed to him, coming back like this, flaunting his wealth and his scars. The scars covered his hands, crisscrossed his fea- tures. His face was smooth-shaven; his hard smile emphasized the strong chin. The horse's steady pace brought him closer to the wall. It loomed above him, beckoning him on, down the road into the ugly maw of hell. The other passengers of the road made room for him to pass. They knew trouble when they saw it. Maybe it was the tight mus- cles they sensed moving beneath the armor, or the sharp weapons that he carried. But maybe it was something else. CADE 21 He had come home, to Sanctuary. He is Cade, here to return the city's gifts. He is Cade and he is riding into hell, with death his only follower. Sarah walked about the main room in aimless circles. Her hand darted out to touch a chest here, a wall hanging there. There was no thought behind her motion; she tried not to think too much. She stopped, staring at a blank wall, fighting the urge to just cry—no, not cry but shout, scream, pound, and break things. He's gone . . . That was what it always led to, the thinking, that he was gone. Terrel, her husband, her love, Terrel, he's gone . . . She always tried to stop it there, but it continued, relentlessly, the memories still so fresh after al- most half a year. They had killed him right here in this room, while she slept. She heard nothing, nothing- Waking up, he wasn't beside her and she was always up first. Small annoyance, walking about, the children still asleep, going downstairs. Gods, she'd almost walked right past it. Even with all the blood. His blood. It had covered everything, the wall, the floor, even the ceiling and there in the middle, his skin so pale. His naked body looking tiny in that immensity of red horror. Spread out, bent at odd angles, the bones; the embalmer said they had broken all his bones. All his bones. How could they do that? There were so many bones. How could they break them all? He's gone . . . Those dark eyes, so kind, so full of pain. His gentle touch, warm breath on her neck. He's gone and she didn't even know why they had killed him. "Gods, have mercy," but there were no tears to punctuate her plea. They had dried up in the horror of the last months. If he had fallen, or gotten sick, if he had even just died, but this . . . that pale body. Sarah knew the memory would never leave her. "He's gone," she said aloud, slumping down in a cool comer. Thank the All-Mother for the Lady Marissa. She had taken the children to the Bazaar with her. If they saw their mother like this . . . She shook her head violently. If it would just go away for a while. The harsh visions scarring her memory like blood staining the walls, drying slowly, cover- uig everything, everywhere . . . Sarah was startled by the loud thump thump of someone banging on the door- She got up, adjusting her clothes. But it wouldn't be Marissa; ^ had just left. Carefully she opened the door. The sun was bright that morning and it streamed through the door- AFTERMATH way, leaving her visitor in backlit shadow. He was tall, with broad shoul- ders, his armor glinting. For a minute she thought it was the guard captain Walegrin. He had actually been kind to her, almost gentle. Her thoughts jumped. News, did they have news? Who did it . . . ? But no, Walegrin was even larger than this man, taller, more muscular. "Sarah," he said, and his voice was full of strange emotions. But there was something about him. Something. He stepped farther out of the shadows and she felt a sharp pain. Terrel, she almost said. It was there in his face, though Terrel had never had such scars. This man's skin was tanned, weathered, hard like his armor and body. "Cade," she whispered. He had come. He was here. For a moment he seemed at a loss- He seemed to retreat into shadow, but there was the memory of Terrel in that face. "I wish to come in," Cade said. "Oh, of course, please come in. I'm sorry, I was so startled, I mean, please come in." He moved past her, his weapons and armor jingling slightly. "You should look to see who is at the door before you open it," he said. "Yes, I should, I suppose, I mean. Do you want anything? To drink, or . . ." Her voice trailed off, her confusion overwhelming her. He turned to look at her. She was attractive in a way. Her face was round, but thin. Her features seemed somehow disjointed, as if a thin veil covered them. Her eyes darted about, not meeting his gaze. But they were her best feature. Brown in an ordinary way, now filled with knowledge and taut pain. She was pretty, her bare shoulder showing in the disarrayed dress. She was pretty. The thought surprised him. It was the sadness, always the sad- ness- When he saw it in women he could never turn from it, never ignore it; it always made them so pretty. He hoped his vengeance would cause her no more . . . sadness. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. They both knew what he meant. "Wine?" she asked, letting the moment pass. "Wine." He followed her into the dining area, seating himself at the scarred wooden table. She handed him a goblet, the best she had. He poured the wine; the sound of the goblet filling reverberated loudly in the room. He put the decanter down, not looking at her, not touching the drink. "You said in your letter," his voice was husky, "you said that Terrel was involved with the PFLS." "I, Terrel . . ." She bowed her head. "I, yes. He ... helped." "Money?" CADE 23 "A little. He didn't like the Rankans"—her voice got softer—"but he wasn't really involved, not in a ... he didn't deserve . . ." but it was too much and she could say no more. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Neither of us like Rankans. Mother al- ways said they killed our father. He wore this."—he touched his war- braid—"my father did." "Cade." She dared to look up, but couldn't meet his steady gaze. "Terrel, he—" She stopped. Could you talk of love to such a man? Cade stood up. "I will get my things. You have a room for me?" She just nodded. "Good. Sarah, we will talk later. I am here. I cannot take away what has happened, but I am here. You need never fear." With that he was gone. She sat there staring at the goblet. She should get up, show him the room, the room she had prepared, prepared months ago, but he would find it, know it was for him. The dim light from the window glinted off the enamel overlay of the goblet. He was . . . Terrel had never said much about Cade, not Cade as a man. He was full of stories of their childhood, of the slow decline into poverty, of the family holding itself together fiercely, as all around them melted into the grayness of despair. Terrel had said that Cade was the stronger. A fighter. Nothing could beat Cade. But who was this man, this man with his weapons and armor clanking about him, his ridiculous warbraid—who wore those anymore? She knew so little of him. Terrel had said he was some sort of warrior, but rich. She knew that. He had set Terrel up in business, bought this house. Money, yes, but ... a shiver caught her by surprise. His eyes, that's what it was. Not the scars of the sword, or even his strange way of talking. It was his eyes. She could see them clearly, re- flected in the odd light of the goblet, framed by the hard lined face, the thick heavy brows, the impossibly black hair. His eyes. They were black, black like Terrel's, but ... She reached out and grabbed the goblet. His eyes, they were like weap- ons, spearing her, attacking everything they focused on, jabbing about, terrifying. She put the goblet down in front of her. It was bent, imprinted by his fingers when he had crushed it, unknowing. But Sarah did not see that. All she could see were those two black eyes. Several days later Cade sat on a stone bench in the small courtyard behind Terrel's house sharpening his sword. With one hand he steadied the blade while with the other he held the whetstone, slowly smoothing out the minor imperfections in the razor-sharp edge. The sunlight danced across the blade, hurting Cade's eyes, but he ignored the discomfort. The 24 AFTERMATH slow, grating scrape of the whetstone on the blade punctuated his thoughts. Things were a lot more complicated than they had appeared on the surface. Scrape. Terrel must have been much more involved in the PFLS than Sarah thought. Scrape. He had been killed, tortured because of this. Scrape. Somehow, Terrel had crossed someone in a major way. Scrape. Damn them all! Cade threw the whetstone across the courtyard, against the far wall. Damn. Why hadn't he come to me? And that was what kept eating at him, demanding an answer. Why hadn't Terrel asked Cade for help? He knew what his younger brother was, what he did. Cade had always protected Terrel, but this time Terrel had chosen to do it on his own. And he'd paid the price. Whom had he crossed and how? Cade ran over the information he'd uncovered so far- Terrel had stayed late at his pottery shop, remaining after his workers had left. He had done that for three months before his death. Why? Then there were the shop accounts—confusing. During the worst pe- riod of chaos in the history of a town always on the edge of collapse, Terrel had shown a profit. By selling pottery? It made no sense. Why did he stay late? What had he been doing? Cade reached into his tunic, pulling out several receipts. There was something else that both- ered him about them. All the buyers had come to pick up their pottery at the shop, no deliveries. Fine. The orders had increased last fall. Terrel naturally ordered more clay. Everything had been paid on time, all for the proper price. Damn, it was here somewhere, he knew it; it had to be. Why had he been staying so late? Cade mulled over the receipts for another half hour, getting more exasperated by the minute. He knew the answer was here, not on the streets. Targ had covered Sanctuary up and down, Cade had followed in the last five days retracing all the likely leads- All had led nowhere. Terrel was liked, respected, not known by anyone who shouldn't know him. His work was good. People were satisfied. None of it made any sense. Even with Terrel giving money to the PFLS, he hadn't given enough to make a real difference. Half the town had been contributing to one faction or another at that time, although not always voluntarily. So why pick on CADE 25 Terrel? An example? Not likely; a bigger target would have served better. Besides, the murder had hardly been public. No, something else . . . Why had he been staying late? How had he been making a profit? How much money could he have given? Money. Late. Money. Late. That's it. Terrel had been working to make more money. No. Some- thing else. If it was to increase profits, why had he let the workers leave? Why not have them work with him? What had he been doing that he didn't want the others to know about? Cade rifled through the receipts again, singling out the purchases. "You fool," he said aloud, but whether he meant himself by it, or Terrel, even he didn't know. It was all right there. TerreFs orders for clay had increased, but some of the clay was cheaper, much cheaper than that he usually used. And Cade was sure that when he checked on it, he would find the new clay totally inappropriate for making good pottery. Something not made to last, something made to break easily, something made for one purpose only: to conceal . . . What was it, Terrel? he thought. What was it you were hiding for your zealots? Weapons? Money? Drugs? All three? What went through your head, brother, staying in that little shop, everyone gone/the light fading, the wheel spinning, your deformed hands forming the cheap clay, changing it. What was it you made—false bottoms, sides? Probably bottoms. You little fool, did you think you were going to change things? Bring about a new Sanctuary, a new world? Make things better? Depose the Rankans you always despised so much? Ah, Terrel, don't you know, revo- lutions always fail in hell. Cade stood up, sheathing his sword. He had the scent now. All he and Targ had to do was ask a few discreet questions, drop a few coins into sweaty palms. This trail would lead them to the truth, to the reason behind Terrel's horrid end. This would lead them to his brother's mur- derer. Cade smiled. He had them now. Sarah sat on the same bench Cade had used earlier that day. She watched the shadows sliding down the wall as the sun set and Sanctuary began its nightly ritual of madness. It was time to go inside, bolt the doors, lock the shutters. But why bother? That hadn't saved Terrel. In Sanctuary death followed you wherever you tried to hide. If it weren't for the children - . . Toth was a good boy; he tried. He understood what had happened and tried to help. Little Dru had no idea what was going on. She was always asking where Da was, and no matter how many times Sarah had ex- plained to her that her father wasn't coming back, she refused to under- 26 AFTERMATH stand. And now, with Cade in the house, they were that much more confused. He had turned their lives upside down. Sarah couldn't decide whether she hated or feared Cade or if it was both. He ordered everyone around like he owned them. Sarah still shook with anger when she recalled catching him teaching the children to fight with a knife. Gods, they were still her babies. Cade had accused her of coddling and smothering them. He had called her a fool and said that fighting was the only way to stay alive in a cesspool like Sanctuary. But how could she explain it to him? Terrel was his brother—surely Cade knew about his brother's crippled hands. How could Cade forget? How could he continue to embrace violence? She and Terrel had con- sciously rejected it, and rejected it for their children. She wasn't stupid, though. She knew he continued to teach Toth when- ever she wasn't around. The bastard. Toth worshiped Cade. For him, his uncle was a great warrior from one of the tales he'd once heard Hakiem tell in the Bazaar. But Sarah knew better. She had an idea now what Terrel had meant when he'd said Cade wasn't really a warrior. The man was a killer as sure as the sea is blue. It was all so confusing. As much as Cade scared her, still he was kind in his own way, but not as Terrel had been. It wasn't gentleness; he was always grim. But he seemed so sad. Last night Dru had cried in her sleep calling for her Da; and when Sarah had gone to check on her she found Cade there soothing the child. He had held her, cooing soft words, unintelligible, but they calmed the child. She fell asleep in Cade's scar- ridden arms. The door behind Sarah burst open and Toth ran into the courtyard. *'Ma, Marissa's here," he gasped out. Sarah looked at him for a mo- ment. He wasn't tall, but his shoulders were beginning to broaden out. He had the Ilsigi hair and eyes of his father's family, but it was her nose and chin that denned his features. The boy shook the hair away from his eyes and beamed at his mother. She smiled back faintly. This last week he actually seemed happier; Cade at least seemed good for the children, for some strange reason. "Tell her to come out here," Sarah answered. "Out here? But it's dark. Cade says—" "Never mind what Cade says," she interrupted. "Tell the Lady Marissa to come out here." He shrugged and did as he was told. Marissa came out moments later, holding a lantern and a goblet of wine. She handed Sarah the drink. CADE 27 "I thought you could use it," Marissa said in her soft voice. Sarah smiled. Marissa was so thoughtful. At first Sarah had been put off by the other's title and light, Rankan good looks. Now she wondered if she could have made it this far without her friend. "Thank you, Marissa. I think you're right." She took a sip of wine, letting the liquid numb her mouth, enjoying the sensation of it sliding down her throat. "Cade's really getting to you, huh?" Marissa said with a raised eye- brow. "Oh, that man. I don't understand him." Sarah's voice dropped to a whisper. "He frightens me." Marissa laughed. "He frightens everyone," she answered, "even Targ." "I can't believe that." Sarah considered the notion that anyone or anything could frighten Marissa's strange mercenary and found it ludi- crous. As ludicrous as, well, as thinking anything scared Cade. *'0h, it's true," Marissa said. "Targ snorts and struts around every time Cade walks into a room." She smiled though Sarah thought it looked a little strained. "I swear his hair stands orTend." Sarah laughed at that. Targ's excessive hairiness had been a running'joke between the two for some time. The thought of all that red hair standing up straight was amusing. "Just like a little porcupine," she said, and the two laughed again. "Marissa," Sarah said, her voice losing all trace of amusement, "why have you hired more mercenaries?" Marissa was quiet. She hated this. She liked Sarah and longed to tell her the truth, all of it. The lies between the two of them kept them apart, but she owed people and she had always paid her debts. "Well, I'll tell you, Sarah," she said. "This town, it is so dangerous, I just feel safer- Gods know I have the money to spare." "How many did you hire?" "Three, not counting Targ, of course." Marissa bit her lip. "I'll tell you a secret." She looked around- "I've told them to keep an eye out on your house, too. So that . . ." She left the rest unfinished. Sarah looked away, but her hand patted her friend's knee briefly. "Thank you, Marissa." She turned back. "But I don't think anyone is going to bother us with Cade around." She took a large swallow of wine. "You know why Cade is here, don't you." It was a statement, not a question. Again Sarah was struck by Marissa's odd unease at her words. Marissa was hiding something, but Sarah did not intend to pry, respect- ing the other's private pain. "Yes," Marissa said, "yes, he's here to find Terrel's, uh, murderer." "He is going to kill whoever is responsible, Marissa." 28 AFTERMATH "Well, Terrel was his brother." "I know, but it all seems"—Sarah shrugged—"so dramatic." Marissa laughed. "Oh, really, Sarah, that sounds so silly." "No, I'm serious." Sarah turned to her friend. "Six months ago I was the wife of a potter. I had"—she swept her arm in an arc behind her—"a nice house, nice things, two wonderful children, and a man I loved dearly," Marissa laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. "And now - . ." Sarah shook her head. "Now I don't know. "My husband has been murdered, tortured to death in that same house, while my children and I slept. Why? I don't even know. Then this man shows up. This strange man. My husband's brother, but the two are not anything alike. My mysterious brother-in-law shows up. With his words and his armor, his dark looks, and dark ways. Suddenly, suddenly I find myself in the middle of a conspiracy, a piper's tale of murder and revenge." Sarah drank deeply again from the wine cup. "I don't under- stand anything anymore, Marissa, and I'm tired of being afraid." Marissa had no answer for her. No words of comfort to offer. She knew all too well what it was like to fear, what it was like to have the world change overnight; to go from a warm, safe place to a world of sudden threats and shadows. What could she say to this woman? What comfort could she give, she who had no comfort in her own life? "Sarah," she said aloud, "Sarah. I don't know what anyone can say or do to help. But I'll tell you one thing." She almost flinched when Sarah turned to face her with those dark, sad eyes. "I think there is more of Terrel in Cade than you think. No matter what happens, he will do everything he can to help you and I don't think it's only because his brother would have wanted him to." It was cold comfort, but in this new world it was often the only hope Sarah was allowed. It took two more days for Targ and Cade to put the rest of the pieces together. That Terrel had been running something for the PFLS was definite; what he had been running was another thing. Why was still a mystery. But Cade now had the most important answer. The contact was in Downwind. Downwind—the one place in Sanctuary Cade had avoided, though in his heart he had known, from the beginning, that it would be his destination. But first he must talk to Sarah again. He wasn't looking forward to this conversation. The woman was half terrified, half fascinated by him. He was afraid he would have to reveal too much to her. There were things he might have to say, show, things he could never take back. But he had to find out what she knew. Accordingly, after dinner he ordered the chil- CADE 29 dren to bed. This earned him a dark look from the woman, but he ig- nored it. He faced his brother's wife across a table still covered with the remnants of the meal. "Sarah, we must talk." "Indeed we must." Her voice was firm. "You can't order my children around like that. You have to—" Cade interrupted. "No, Sarah, not now. We have to talk about Terrel." She grew quiet at that. "Sarah, Terrel was involved much more deeply with the PFLS than you thought." "What do you mean?" "He was running contraband for them." "I know he gave them some money, but everybody was supporting one group or another." "He was doing more than contributing a few spare coins." Cade sighed, his hand drumming against the table edge. "When Terrel stayed late, he was making pots, special pots." "Cade, that is what he did for a living." "I know that." Cade leaned over the table. "But these pots were built to hide things." "What sort of things?" "Who knows?" Cade shrugged. "Weapons, money, messages, even drugs, whatever it was doesn't matter now. What matters is that he did it for the PFLS. He was not just paying them; he was one of them." "I don't believe it." "Believe it." Cade leaned back, staring at her. "I've discovered a whole underground organization, very well coordinated, slipping all sorts of things through the different control zones of the town. Terrel was part of it, and it's because of that he was killed." "Why?" "I'm still not entirely sure. Could have been a lot of reasons—one of the other factions found out, one of his own people betrayed him, per- haps even the PFLS themselves were the killers." "But why? If he was helping them, why would they kill him?" "Lots of reasons: a shipment got lost, an internal upheaval." His voice was bitter. "Sarah, this town was a mess, insane. No one knew who was in charge of what. The control areas changed daily, hourly. Somehow, someone decided Terrel had broken a rule, and they made him pay." Sarah's face was pale and her lips trembled, but she could think of noth- ing to say. "Well." he continued, "there are a few things we can infer." He waited but she was still silent. "Okay, they didn't torture him for information." "How do you know?" 30 AFTERMATH "Because he was killed here, while you were sleeping. Yet you and the children never woke. Why? Magic—possibly. A sleeping draught—less likely. No one, anywhere, heard a sound the whole time Terrel was dying. I think magic, a spell to contain any sound he or his torturers made." He shook his head. "A lot of effort. Why not just kidnap him, take him somewhere else, interrogate him there? But, no, they did it here, there- fore it had to be for one of two reasons: to set an example, or to exact revenge. Probably revenge." "I don't understand." "If he was killed as an example, well, there were other ways they could have done it, less hazardous ways, and more obvious ones. Besides, as I said, lots of people were doing what Terrel did. He wasn't a big enough fish to go to such lengths for. No, it has to be vengeance." Cade ground his teeth together, the skin of his face pulled tight, making his scars stand out in high relief. "They broke every bone in his body, Sarah. Think about it. That's not a normal torture, and as far as I can discover no one else has been killed this way. He was killed that way because ... be- cause someone knew." "About what happened, his hands," she said. Cade looked surprised. So Terrel had told her. "Yes." He said no more. The two sat, lost in their memories. She recalled a warm night, a storm coming in, her new husband sitting on the bed telling her the tale of his deformity in a monotone. He, his mother, and Cade had come to Down- wind; forced there because, with the death of their father there was no money, and there was no family to help them. Terrel's mother found what work she could, buying Terrel a slate, working hard to find the chalk. It had made it all livable for him, given him a hope for another way of life. Then one day, four years after they had moved, a gang jumped him, breaking the slate, the chalk, and the fingers that loved to draw; maiming him for life, so he could never be the artist he dreamed about . . . But Cade had other memories. "Sarah." She looked up at him, now with a tear in her eye. "Terrel told you what happened. Do you know the rest?" "The rest?" So, Cade thought, he never knew. Well, that's something, I guess. Cade had never told anyone before, kept it to himself. Now he could not hold it in, though he could see no purpose in his honesty. His voice was harsh. "He came home that night, his lip cut where he'd bitten it through, trying to hold back his cries. His hands—if he had come home sooner, maybe we could have set them. I don't know. They were ruined." He looked away from her. "He was in such pain. CADE 31 "Mother—" He sighed. "Mother tried to heal those hands. Every night she held him, crying on the bent fingers, as if her tears could really take the pain away." He could still see them. Lying on the cot, the ragged cloth that divided their one-room shack tattered and frayed, not hiding the scene from his young eyes. She had rocked Terrel to sleep every night. He slept with her because of the nightmares, about the sound of the snap of bones that just wouldn't go away. "I had nothing, we had nothing to give him," Then Cade turned to her, his eyes so fierce she looked away. "But then, I knew, I had one gift . . . Sarah, I had vengeance." His voice shook as he relived that time. He told her how he had found the rope in an alley full of mud and refuse, how he had pulled the brick from one of the few real buildings in Down- wind. How he tied the brick to the rope and then waited. "For three nights I waited,"—he stood up, his muscles taut with the memory—"until they went to sleep. Then I took my rope and brick, and one by one I found those who had done it." His eyes were wild. "I found them." He sighed. "I caught them and I smashed them with the brick." His hand pounded the air. "I smashed them over and^over and over." He took a deep breath, then stood still. "I found them. I didn't kill them. I found them and afterwards they never drew either." He sat down, not looking at her. "Terrel was thir- teen. I was eleven . . ." The room was quiet. Sarah stared at Cade, but he would not look at her. She realized he was embarrassed. He had told her something that he hadn't had to, at least not that way. He had showed her his secret. In it she knew was the real Cade, the answer to all his riddles, but she could not see it. All she could think of was Cade. He had only been about Toth's age . . . "Sarah—" Now his voice was soft, and he hadn't used that tone with her before. "Whoever killed him knew; knew what had happened to him; knew of his fears." "He still had nightmares," she answered. "I thought so. They knew, Sarah, and I don't know how. But I do know the answer is in Downwind. And it's there I have to go . . ." Cade stood at the end of the decrepit bridge. Across its rotting length lay his goal—Downwind. The smell from the slow-moving White Foal River was noxious, full of refuse and dead things. Cade ignored it. After all, it should smell like home to him. He wore old riding leathers with a weather-stained cloak thrown over them. He carried his sword openly, though several other weapons were 32 AFTERMATH concealed about his body. He looked like a down-and-out mercenary, between jobs, but one who knew his business well. Tough enough looking that the dregs of Downwind would leave him alone, obscure enough not to draw attention, except from those who noticed the warbraid and knew what it meant. The answer was here in Downwind. At first Cade thought he would have to find Zip, the leader of PFLS, and now apparently one of the military officers of Sanctuary. Cade didn't want to deal with the powers of Sanctuary if he could help it. There were several he'd rather not have to tangle with if possible. Take that madwoman Chenaya, building an army of gladiators. He smiled at the thought. Gladiators! Gladiators made poor soldiers, and were hardly equipped for the streets of Sanctu- ary. Everybody was insane here . . . It seemed Zip had made several mistakes, and the PFLS had fractured into at least three recognizable factions. The hard-core stayed loyal to their charismatic leader, but some of the less patriotic and more power- minded had gone their own way. Cade followed the trail that led to money, and in a town like Sanctuary there were three quick ways of making money; prostitution, drugs, and slavery. The whorehouses were well controlled here. They were an important part of Sanctuary's econ- omy. And the slavery, well it seemed Jubal used to control that, probably still did, but there were rumors on the streets of a new organization. But whoever they were, they weren't in business yet when Terrel was caught, so the answer was drugs. That's where the faint trail became as clear as a paved road. Whatever Terrel had run first, he had ended up running drugs, something Cade doubted his brother had been too pleased about. That didn't fit into his image of a revolution. But the goals of the revolution had been revised, and the new rules were made here, in Down- wind. The many gangs of Downwind had become more entrenched in the last few years, less like youth gangs and more like organized crime fami- lies. The largest, next to the beggar king's, was a gang called the Sharp Side. A gang that ran a good portion of Downwind, a gang that con- trolled Cade's old turf and it seemed, much more. A gang that had originally been part of the PFLS, but had re-formed in the last months, re-formed to take control of some of the contacts once run by Zip. A gang that now ran a third of the drug trade in Sanctuary. So. It had all been there, easy to read, once you saw the pattern. Now Cade had to find the Sharp Side, and find out who had given the orders. Why they'd given them. And then he'd make them pay. Casually he strolled across the bridge, giving no outward sign of the fast beating of his heart, his disgust and agony, his despair. CADE 33 Slowly he headed toward his old house, his inmost self creating an ineffective shield against the world that passed before his eyes. Down- wind was pain, for its inhabitants and for any with the eyes to see. All about him, as he wound his way through the filth-strewn streets, the nightmare was acted out. The adults were empty husks of aimless mo- tion, the children dirty and mean. The toddlers plodded about, un- watched, their distended stomachs seeming to lead them about in their desperate search for anything remotely edible. But that wasn't the worst. There were the carcasses of shacks, like decomposing animals, in which the inhabitants played out their desperate lives. The little girls, and boys, offering their bodies for a piece of bread. And of course the blood. Everywhere apparent, drying on the walls, spilling fresh from ragged wounds, and behind the eyes of every poor bastard who walked the empty streets. Every one of them seemed to carry an ugly scar, a reminder of some time when a blade met their flesh ... or a thrown rock ... or a fist. He shuddered. Worse? What was worse? The term was meaningless. The blood? The hunger? No, the disease ... the corruption in every- one's veins. Scales and shingles covering thin limbs. Eyes oozing mucus, coughs racking whole frames. Their slow descent toward uncaring death. That was it, of course, the heart and soul of Downwind. Death. Com- ing at them from so many angles, attacking them, and they had no chance to defend themselves. Like his mother: the hard work she'd en- dured, the food she'd denied herself so that her children could have one more mouthful. What was it that finally killed her? Was it one of the many diseases ravaging her? Was it the fear? No, she was past that in the end. Past desperation. Past hope . . . For her, as for so many, it had been the humiliation. The constant unending shame of being trapped, of having failed. The self-hatred for all those things she'd had to do just to survive. Cade still remembered the first night she had sold herself to a man. How she had bathed afterward in a decrepit washtub borrowed from a more fortunate neighbor. How he had stumbled upon her naked. The water red with her blood as she scrubbed and scrubbed, her skin floating like bits of dried leaves in the soft pink water. He sobbed once at that memory, but he didn't cry. He had only cried twice in his lifetime. The first time when poor Terrel came home with his broken fingers, the pieces of his slate clamped between two swollen and useless hands. The second time . . . His mother had been thirty-one when she died. She had looked much Older. He could remember it so well. Her once thick black hair was gray Sod thin, the skin wrinkled with grime caught in the folds, her eyes dull 34 AFTERMATH and empty as they had never been in life. He remembered the hollow thump as her hardened corpse was tumbled into the shallow pauper's grave. He heard the sound all the time, every day—thump-thump-thump —as he waded through hell, his hands red with the blood of those he set free, to one fate or another. It was agony to remember it all. His sensitive nose twitched at the familiar hateful smells. The harsh odor of human waste warming in the sun, the tang of sweat and urine, the thick reek of corruption. The sights, the smells, even the sounds. They built up about him, surrounding him like a vast sea of mud. He moved through Downwind like a great black shark, swimming through the slime and seaweed of an ocean floor. About him were the remains of a thousand dark meals, bits of flesh and bone, floating in the silt-filled waters. Occasionally he bumped into a half-eaten corpse. And all around him were the unvoiced cries of the damned. Finally he came to the end of his nightmare, to where it all began. He stood before a broken wall, four feet high. It outlined the remains of a building, the mud bricks cracked and decaying in the sun. This had been his home, so long ago. The home he still dreamed about at night, in the dark, alone. This pathetic shell was all that was left of the passion and terror of his childhood. He walked through what had once been the doorway, though there had never been a door, just a ragged piece of blanket. Standing in the middle of the room he was surprised to see how small it was. The house had been a single room, a shack. But it had seemed larger somehow. There had been no windows; the heat of the summer had been a living thing, latching on to him, drawing his strength out in a shuddering gasp. The winters were cold. He remembered choking from the smoke that never seemed to find its way out of the hole cut in the canvas roof. What monster conceived this? What had man ever done to earn such a pay- ment? How could there be any being alive that enjoyed such perverse cruelty! Was there no one he could make pay for this? Nothing, no one he could attack? Must this sickening non-life be reenacted for eternity? "Hey mister, you all right?" a voice intruded, calling him back. Cade was surprised to find that his two hands were held high above his head, making futile grasping motions in the air ... searching for a neck to grasp? Or begging for relief from pain? He couldn't understand what his actions meant. He didn't care, not anymore. He dropped his arms to his sides and turned to face the speaker. It was a boy, young, barely into his teens. He wore little more than a stained loincloth. His ribs were sticking out, though he had large shoul- CADE 35 ders, and his legs were well-muscled. He also wore a wicked-looking knife at his side. "What do you want?" Cade asked. It came as another shock to realize he had been wandering about for several hours, his mind caught in its mad reverie, a dangerous thing to do in Sanctuary. "I, I just wanted to know if you were all right," the boy answered. Cade looked at him again. He was Ilsigi, dark, dark. His thin chest had several scars, but he seemed in good health, if underfed. And he met Cade's eyes. "Kindness?" Cade asked. "Or are you looking for something, boy?" "Neither, who knows. Just asked." The boy's voice turned hard. "Sorry I bothered you, pud," and he moved away, not quite showing his back to Cade. "Wait!" Cade said. "Wait." He moved to catch up to the boy, but the youth kept his distance. "Who are you?" "What's it to you?" The boy crouched a bit, his body tense. Not wor- ried yet, but definitely wary. Cade threw the boy a silver piece which the lad caught deftly. "I don't sel! myself, pud," he said. "I don't want your body," Cade answered. He pointed at his head. "I want information." The boy looked interested. He bit the coin with stained teeth and then made it disappear. "Some information costs more than others. What did you want to buy, pud?" "How much can I buy about the Sharp Side?" "Shalpa's cloak," the boy swore, "you trying to get killed, friend?" "You wear no colors, you're an independent," Cade said. "You must have been smart to survive that way. You have to know things. I want to know those things." "Why?" "Because they killed my brother." Cade knew he should have lied, but he could always kill the boy later. The boy was dead meat anyway; an independent wouldn't last very long around here. "My name's Raif," the boy answered. He looked Cade up and down. "Can you use that sword?" he asked skeptically. Cade reached down, searched the floor for a moment, then pulled up a small piece of wood four inches long, half an inch wide. He handed it to the boy. "Hold it out." Raif did so, holding it in his right hand. Making no sign of his intention Cade drew his blade right-handed and cut the wood in half; simultaneously his left hand withdrew a hidden knife and threw it— all at a blinding speed. The knife pinned the two-inch piece of wood to the ground. Raif just stared at the other half in his hand. Cade smiled. 36 AFTERMATH "I do all right." "Shit." Raif shook his head. "I'll tell you what I know, if you pay me another silver, then keep your mouth shut that I helped." "Give me what I want, boy, and I'll put you under my protection." It was a lie, of course, but the boy's look was so open, so full of hope, and fear of that hope. Cade almost felt guilty about it. "Follow me," Raif said. "I'll take you to a place we can talk." Cade followed, shaking his head at the lad's foolishness. Someone was bound to see the two of them together and Raif would pay for Cade's revenge. The boy was truly desperate. Maybe he could use him. He shook his head again. No, the boy was a dead man. Of course, it could be a trap, but not likely. Cade silently padded after Raif. He kept his thoughts off his face: a dead-eyed shark in the sea of hell. Raif moved fast, avoiding all contact with anyone on the street. He led Cade through a series of winding alleys and unused paths. Eventually he stopped at a blackened wall at the end of a blind alley. Quickly he scam- pered over the wall. Cade followed warily. On the other side, Cade found himself in a walled space about ten feet long and three wide. Raif went to his knees and dug through the garbage, revealing a small passageway. The two worked through the rank-smelling tunnel. Cade realized it was the remains of some sewer lines built in better times. For about ten minutes they crawled through the mud, tak- ing several turns along the way. Finally Raif called a halt. There was a burst of light. The light came from the sun. Cade was in a small brick-lined room. Raif had removed one of the bricks to let in a shaft of sunlight. The place smelled like a rotting corpse. "This is my best hideout," Raif said. Cade smiled, acknowledging that the boy meant this as a gesture of trust. He looked Raif over again. The boy's face was lost in shadow but somehow those dark eyes gave the impression of giving off light, a silver light. "Why do you hate the Sharp Side?" Cade asked. "What makes you think I hate those punks?" Raif answered, but he couldn't hide his surprise at Cade's question. "You want to help me, not just because you might get something out of me. You want to hurt the Sharp Side." Cade squatted down; the boy mimicked his movement slowly. "Besides, you're not stupid. People would have seen us together. If I hurt the Sharp Side they'll know I talked to you. They'll get to you." Again Cade surprised himself. Why was he being so honest? Raif was quiet for a moment, digesting Cade's words. "You, do you know Downwind?" Raif asked, playing with his knife. CADE 37 "I grew up here." Raif nodded his head. "You have the look." The boy shifted uncom- fortably. "You can tell, the ones who don't know, but those who've been here, lived here, it marks you. Can't ever hide it." Cade just waited. "Born here," Raif grunted, looking past Cade's shoulder. "Father's a drunk, mother's a drunk. They sold my sister to a caravan last year. Father hits mother, raped my sister. Mom will do anything for another drink. Sometimes works at Mama Becho's. But my brother . . ." Raif said no more. Cade understood. His family, destroyed by Downwind. He was an independent in more ways than one. He wasn't beat yet. And . . ." "What of your brother?" "Old Ilsigi family." Raif's voice was quiet and small. The place, his "best" hideout, was cool, but Cade could smell the sweat on the boy. "That's why I talked to you." A pale hand waved in the strange light of the room. 'The warbraid, I know it. I remember what it means. Not many left who do." "Your brother." "PFLS. Thought, well, we're an old family." The boy shrugged. "He beat up my father real bad when they sold my sister. He and I left. He didn't make anything fighting, but we were fed. I ran errands. We worked Downwind, but my brother was due for a promotion." The light reflected off the boy's knife as he shifted to make himself more comfortable. "The Sharp Side broke off when the Rankan god-warrior pressured Zip. Things split. My brother stayed loyal. Sharp Side slit his throat." He leaned back on the wall behind him and waited. Cade could think of nothing to say. How old was this boy? Fourteen? Fifteen? They aged fast in Downwind; Cade knew that well enough. His whole story told in quick, short sentences. No explanation, no anger, no nothing. Just a story. The same story as always. The tale of the damned. "What was your brother's name?" "No name. They're all dead." And Cade knew that the boy included all his family in his statement. Cade sat unmoving. Behind him he heard the slow drip of water, the sound loud and monotonous. Time. It was time. Melting this pathetic refuge away. Until the boy was left standing in the sunlight. Alone. Sacrificed to the madness men thought of as life. "Have you killed?" he asked. "No." **Have you raped?" "No." "Have you tortured?" No answer. So there were things here, deeds here. Cruelty. If he killed 38 AFTERMATH the boy would he free him? Or consign him to annihilation? Cade watched him for a moment. A choice must be made. It was so hard with the young. Kill them in their innocence and they are freed. Or are they? Is innocence ignorance? Mustn't they be given the chance to decide, to choose their path and therefore their destiny? Cade felt sorry for the boy, but then again he felt sorry for all men. But this one had no chance. And he was so much like . . . but leave that thought. Still, one day Cade would die. Who would take up the war then? Who would defy the lords of hell when Cade finally felt and went to the emptiness? For of course Cade knew that there would be no better world for him. Madness can be a fine thing. Cade knew he was evil. Still, he could give the boy the chance. "Raif," his voice soft, "this is hell, do you understand?" The boy just stared. "In hell, all choices are hard." He took a deep breath. "We will sit here, you and I, in your best hideout. We will sit here and you will tell me of the Sharp Side. Then we shall leave together. And together we shall kill them all." "All?" "All. We might kill those we shouldn't, but we must kill them all, or they will retaliate, against you, against me. The burden is mine. I ex- ceeded my allowed debt long ago. You shall have a chance." And then he laughed. Laughed truly. For Cade would do it. He would free this boy of Sanctuary's chains, let him roam and fight hell on his own terms. Give him a chance to be a hero as poor Targ was always dreaming of. Yes, that was it. He would do this as so long ago at the same age he dreamed of someone saving him. And Cade laughed harder. The sound reverberated in the dank tunnels, but somehow it was a comforting sound. It had power, and passion. But it was a gentle sound. "Now"—Cade's laughter ended abruptly—"tell me of our enemies, young warrior." It took nearly a week to set up. Raif acted as intermediary. They accepted that- Targ acted as the buyer, Raif his connection. Cade wan- dered about, following aimless leads to throw off any interested parties. The final act was almost ready to begin. He had the long-sought answers. The why? Simple. The Sharp Side took over many of the operations of the PFLS, including Terrel's. It had taken Terrel a while to figure it out. When he did he had tried to warn Zip. The Sharp Side had caught him. Who? Well, one of them was known as "The Beast," an interrogator for the PFLS, now for the Sharp Side. A mysterious man, little was known about him. But it was rumored he was so unmanageable Zip was CADE 39 glad to see him gone. A man who enjoyed his work. A psychopath. He was the one who wouid have broken Terrel's bones. Then there was Amuuth. The brain. The one who ran the gang, gave the orders. Born in Downwind, barely thirty, Amuuth had worked his way up through the ranks. Cruel, hard, uncompromising, and known to be arbitrary in his decisions. This man was the most feared man in Downwind. And his hands were broken. Cade couldn't be sure. but it made sense. This man knew of Terrel's fear, because he was one of the original causes. He hadn't made an exam- ple of Terrel. His position was too unstable for him to go public. No, he didn't make sure Terrel died of his worst fear for political reasons. He did it for his own pleasure. For fun . . . There were seven other hard-core members, good fighters all. Twenty auxiliaries rounded out the gang, but only three of these were so loyal that Cade would have to kill them. Twelve. Twelve lives for Terrel's. It wouldn't even begin to balance the scales. Cade, Raif, and Targ sat at the table in Marissa's House. The guards were on the roof. Marissa was with Sarah. The sun had set. One hour and it would be over. Terrel's death would be avenged- "Are you sure the whole gang will be at the meet?" Cade asked. "They always do it that way," Raif answered. "All nine of the insiders at a buy." The boy's voice was happy, and who could blame him? Cer- tainly not Cade. This had been the best week of Raif's short life. Money to have good quarters in Downwind (and to buy his first woman, though he hid that from Cade), all the food he could eat, sword practice with Targ in the hot sun. Gods, his own sword. Though he didn't wear it. Cade and Targ had made it clear he would not be allowed to wear the sword until he knew how to use it. It was all like a dream to Raif, and even all this talk of murder and revenge made no dent in his new world. Targ watched the youngster, keeping back a frown. Raif was a good boy, and damned smart. But he hero-worshiped Cade, like Toth did. Targ couldn't understand it. Children never feared Cade, always reacted well to him. They missed the madness there, and the years of killing. But then again, whatever Targ thought of Cade, he knew one thing Cade didn't know about himself: for all his self-aggrandizing introspection, Cade had never and would never kill a child. "I still think I should go with you," Targ said aloud, though he did not look at Cade. "No." The only light in the room came from the single lantern lying between them. Cade stared at the large shadow Targ cast on the wall 40 AFTERMATH behind him, like a giant leaning over to listen to their conversation. "You must get the other three. All must die tonight." "They're expecting me to be there. The deal is with me. If they see you, they'll know what's up." "They won't see me"—Cade's voice was firm—"not until I want them to." "There's nine," Targ insisted, but Cade only answered with a shrug. Targ could think of nothing else to say. Cade insisted on taking on the gang alone. The mercenary didn't like it. But there it was. Cade would do what he wanted, and he explained himself to no one. "Why not take me?" Raif piped up. Targ just reached for the wine. He knew what Cade's reaction to that would be. "You've seen how good I am with the knife," he insisted. "They expect me to be there, too." His voice trailed off at Cade's dark look. "Raif, killing a man is not so easy." "They killed my brother, too, damn them. I want my revenge." Cade's hand banged on the table. "You're talking like a fool. Do you think this is one of your daydreams? Riding up on a white horse, saving the city to the cheers of men and women alike? Revenge is bitter, boy, and far removed from justice." "But—" Raif started again, but this time he shut up when he saw the flash in Cade's eyes. "You've had your revenge, boy. Your information, your help has set this thing up. Now leave it to us to finish it." He turned to Targ, but the mercenary just nodded. Cade could handle himself, and Targ's prey, well, they were as good as dead. Targ could live with this. Cade never asked him to do something his conscience would forbid. Targ's honor would not suffer from this. Unconsciously, he bared his teeth, the sharp edges of his canines al- ready beginning to show. Too bad it couldn't be a cleaner fight. But he hadn't succumbed to his particular curse in so long, and this night—well, these bastards deserved it. Cade stood up. He wore leather armor stained black, a bow in one hand, various other weapons strapped on tightly. Targ pushed his chair back and faced the other. He wore only an old faded kilt, his sword strapped to his back. The two clasped arms. "I'll take the others out," Targ said. "None will escape." Cade gave him a hard smile. "Good hunting," he said softly. Targ's face twisted for a moment at Cade's choice of words, but the bloodlust was on him and he was eager to go. Neither said anything to Raif as Cade opened the door and they CADE 41 moved into the night. Raif stared at the open doorway for several min- utes. Then he, too, got up and walked into the night's embrace. Cade moved through the shadows to the waterfront district, taking care that no one followed him. The meeting was set up in a large ware- house there. The streets were quiet tonight. The moon was waning and a light cloud cover shielded the starlight- It was a perfect night for death. There were four of the Sharp Side on outside guard duty, one on the roof, two in front, and one in the back. They were well hidden, but they moved about a lot. Sloppy. They were getting arrogant in their success. It was only a matter of time until someone took them out. The one on the roof was first and easiest. An arrow through the eye killed him instantly. No one heard the body fall. Cade moved to the roof, looking down on the dark silhouettes of the two guards in front. Another bolt, through the neck, and one was down. The second heard something. He didn't move. Smart. Cade silently climbed down the side of the building until he was ten feet above his prey. He leaped. The guard was fast,^but caught by sur- prise. Even as he reached for his weapon. Cade drew a "knife across his throat. Cade stared down at the crumpled body, watching the blood pump from the neck, staining the ground liquid black. He shook his head; a waste of talent. This man had once been very good. The guard in back was careless. Cade dropped a rope from the roof, caught the man around the throat, and lifted him up. His neck broke in the first five feet. Cade anchored him to the building. The body dangled ten feet off the ground. Cade was making an example. He moved to the inside, through a trap door. The warehouse was full of boxes and crates, which surprised Cade. Since when did Sanctuary do enough business to fill a warehouse? There were things in town he did not know and could not understand. Silently he reconnoitered the building. There were five left. Two with bows watched the remaining three. Amuuth, the Beast, and another waited at a table in the middle of the warehouse, a small lamp on the table giving the only light in the building. It took Cade ten minutes to kill both the bowmen; the others were not alerted. Cade lay on top of several crates, next to the body of the second bowman. From this vantage point he studied the remaining targets. Amuuth sat at the table, facing the front entrance. His clothes were Sue though dirty. His two gnarled hands ceaselessly played with the long ^Uace he wore. His black hair was worn short, in Rankan fashion; his ward was well trimmed. Cade could not see his eyes. To the left of his leader stood the last of the regular gang members. He 42 AFTERMATH was a large man, big-boned and heavily muscled. He wore an expensive chainmail corset and carried a two-handed sword. From his hiding place Cade could see the blue eyes reflect the light of the lamp. No Ilsigi this one. Hired help, and by all appearances well worth whatever his pay was. The last of the three stood to the right ofAmuuth. Cade was surprised at how small the feared Beast was. A little man, all huddled in his stained cloak. The torturer's face was hidden by a cowl; a knife glinted in his pale hands. The Beast ignored the others, his attention on something else. As Cade watched, the torturer began to hum to himself and slowly rock from side to side. Amuuth gave his servant a dirty look, but said nothing. It was time to move. Cade rolled away from the ledge. From a leather sheath on his side he pulled out three thin black cylinders. Deftly he put the three together, forming one tube six feet long. He placed the object on his right. Reaching into a pouch at his belt he withdrew a three-inch needle. He twisted a bit of fleece about one end of the needle, then laid it beside the tube. He rolled onto his back and slowly drew his sword, making sure those below him could see no gleam off the blade. Then he checked his bow, placing it and the sword on his right. Once again he moved to the edge of the crates. He was about eight feet above the men, fifteen feet away. An easy shot. He held the tube to his lips, carefully balancing it. No one noticed the long tube sticking over the edge of a crate. Cade took the fleece side of the needle in his mouth, took a deep breath, and spat the needle through the tube. The noise he made was covered by Amuuth's reaction. He swatted at his neck, tried to rise, went rigid, and fell over, chair and all. The Beast just stared. The guard turned quickly to his employer then spun to face the sound of the blowgun landing behind him. The mercenary turned at just the right time for Cade's shot to catch him full in the neck, severing the jugular vein. Cade had time to feel a quick stab of remorse at this. It was no way to kill a warrior. Even as he thought it, he was leaping down off the crates, his sword now in hand. The Beast hopped from one foot to the other, apparently at a loss as to what to do. Amuuth lay huddled, unmoving; the guard was dead. What was he supposed to do? He looked at the grinning Cade, tall in the lamplight, his sword held steady and pointing at the Sharp Side's tor- turer. "Uh," he said, "uh, guards!" He shouted, "Guards! Attack! Murder! Guards!" Cade let him go on for a while, smiling the whole time, the CADE 43 "The guards are all dead," he said finally. The Beast stood to his full height, swinging his thin shoulders back. Cade could still not see his face. "So," the torturer said, "so. All gone, ah, well." He did a little dance, then moved closer. "All dead. Well, dead." On the second "dead," he moved quickly and a knife appeared out of his long sleeves and spun toward Cade. But Cade was ready and knocked the weapon out of the air with his sword. The Beast just stood there, his other knife still dancing in his hands. "Uh, so," he said. "Who are you?" he shouted. "I am Cade." "So." "Terrel was my brother." "Uh, so." "Terrel was the man you tortured, the man whose bones you broke. All of them." The other was silent for a moment, digesting the informa- tion. Then he laughed, a high-pitched squeal. "Oh, yes. Lovely bit of work, that." The madman's head moved to a song only he heard. "Yes, oh yes. Too bad, though. Only for fun, you realize. There was no information to get or anything/Still, nice bit of work. Spell was a nice touch, I thought." The Beast smiled, showing crooked and browning teeth. "He screamed and screamed, but the sound didn't carry don't you know. Magic." He snapped his fingers. "Yes, well, you know—" But Cade could hear no more. With a roar he leaped at the torturer. The other's knife tried to parry his blade, but it was shoved aside by the power behind Cade's swing. The sword crashed into the Beast's head, cutting deep into the skull, splitting it nearly in two. The Beast crashed to the ground, dead. Cade moved closer to see the face. It was hard to distinguish among tfie purplish-red remains. The face was split to the nose. Cade made out watery brown eyes, quickly filming over, and the face of an old man. He looked like someone's grandfather, the silver-white hair now dyed with red streaks. Cade spat on the corpse. This looked like no beast. Hell was a funny place. Cade heard the noise behind him, though few others would have. He spun in a crouch, his sword held before him, a throwing dagger already in the palm of the other hand. Who? All nine were taken care of. Slowly, a slight form moved out of the shadows and Cade relaxed- "I told you to stay away, Raif." **I thought you might need some help," the boy answered, looking •round. He grinned at Cade, though his face was pale. "I guess you ack, pushing him toward the door like a wife who'd made a nightly trip o the Unicorn to bring her drunken husband home to bed. Snapper Jo aluted her with his raffish inhuman grin, dipping his bristly chin in a ;esture of respect. Great. Homage from a fiend, friends in high places, estranged from her •eal friends because of that: because of Molin, who had another wife, Crit ind Gayle and Randal avoided her like the plague. Only Straton, in limilar circumstances, of all the men she'd campaigned with in the Wiz- ird Wars, acknowledged her. And Zip . . . As Strat had jibed, Zip was another of her lovers. Men used their nuscle and their sex for intimidation, and no one thought ill of them for t. Kama was a different sort of operator, but used what she had to. Whatever worked to do the job. It stung her to the quick the way the •nen she'd fought beside treated her now, simply because she'd let the -ligh priest wield his influence to help her. If her father had had a dozen lovers, or a hundred victims of his holy -aping member, no Sanctuarite would have snickered or presumed to :riticize. Maybe she should strip her next bed partner at knifepoint, prove herself her father's daughter to one and all. Maybe then Crit would »top looking past her when they met . . . Strat stumbled in the doorway, belched, and staggered down the stairs WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 57 to the street. The bay horse whickered, its ears pricked. Kama shivered. The damned thing was dead as a doornail, just didn't know it. Strat didn't seem to know it either: he fumbled in his pouch, came up with a chunk of sugarbeet, and held it out on an open palm. The ghost-horse's velvet lips delicately snatched the treat, and it snorted in pleasure. Well, maybe not quite as dead as a doornail. But unnatural as hell. Unnatural as Sanctuary, a place Kama was determined to leave com- pletely out of the history she was writing of her father's exploits. Sanctu- ary deserved no chronicler, as it deserved nothing more than the oblitera- tion it was so obviously seeking. The town had its own genius, Kama was sure, an Ilsig spirit that had finally had its fill of interlopers and was nudging the place itself toward oblivion's precipice. She wanted only to be quit of it before Sanctuary was razed to the ground by Rankans, gutted and left to rot by Beysibs, or torn stone from off of stone by internal strife. A historian, Kama knew all the signs of a town dying. Sanctuary didn't lack a one: its gods were impotent; its magic had lost its power; its populace was polarized by generations of hatred; its children wanted only to destroy. "What, Strat?" she said, startled by words undeciphered but still ring- ing in her ears. She looked up. The big Stepson was already mounted, reins in his right hand, his left arm carefully resting on one thigh. "I said, finding Zip should be easy—it's his shift, the dead of night. You want him, let's go up to the command guardpost." She shook her head- "Told you, he's moving those damned stones. And the porking whatever that lives in 'em, tonight. Heard it from a reliable source." The guardpost was safe for Strat, this time of night—Crit had the day shift; Strat's erstwhile partner spent his evenings in an old Sham- bles Cross safe house the Stepsons used to run. "So where?" Strat's voice was suddenly uneasy. "Down to the river, soldier. If you can handle it—the White Foal's banks, I mean, so close to Ischade's." "Pork what I can handle, woman," said Strat, the booze getting to his tongue. "I've picked that snipe up by his collar more than he's picked up your skirts. You wanted help, you've got it. You change your mind, that's fine, too. But we can't just sit here." She got her horse, her neck hot though the night was chill with the bone-deep cold of a recalcitrant spring. Her fingers were numb on her slick reins and the roan she rode bucked and danced under her. The wrong horse for this job, too skittish, too green. But the Stepsons had taken their string, leaving only what wasn't held in common. Except, of 58 AFTERMATH course, for the single Tros-bred that should have been hers, but had gone to Critias because Tempos wasn't above that sort of insult. It wasn't fair, but her father had never been. Didn't want a daughter, didn't care however much Kama tried to make him. A woman wasn't consequential, not to him. And her affair with Torchholder had made things worse, not better. Was Tempus trying to tell her, by giving Crit the horse and forcing Crit to stay on along with her here, that if she went back with Crit, he'd forgive them both? Was Crit being singled out as an acceptable choice? Or did Tempus just not give a frog's fart? The latter, most likely. She was going to try to do the same. Try not to care. Try to understand and overcome the trial that was Sanctuary, the punishment of being stationed here. But because she was stationed here, assigned like any of his men to onerous duty, she hadn't had the heart to refuse to tarry. That would have been playing on her blood relationship, asking special favors, admitting that she, a woman, couldn't handle hard duty like the men. Help the garrison commander and the hierarchy restore some order here, that's your job. You're a good intelligence collector. Collect, her fa- ther had said to her, but nothing more. Nothing personal, nothing be- yond what was said in that meeting where the rear guard was singled out. And Crit had stared boldly at her across the table in the safe house, knowing already whom Tempus was intending to name as commander- in-chief of Sanctuary's disparate armed forces. Knowing she'd have to come to him, be under his command. It stank. She kicked her roan and slapped its poll and, under diverse and punitive instruction, it settled down. Jogging beside the half-drunken Straton toward the river, she wished she was anywhere else, doing any- thing else. Trying to keep Zip from making this sort of mistake wasn't her job, but Crit's. Straton knew that, too, but hadn't voiced it. Crit was head of the combined militias, including the fifty grunts that made up Walegrin's regular army barracks, but Zip, like Aye-Gophlan, was an undercom- mander, responsible for the second and third shifts each day. Only Crit, or someone from the palace hierarchy, could tell Zip to leave the riverside altar be and make it stick. But Kama would die before she went to Crit and asked him to solve a problem she couldn't. Bringing Strat into it made the message she was sending the more clear: We who love you won't be treated this way. You've snubbed us both for your precious command, now live with it. But don't expect us to bow and scrape. Strat had wanted Sanctuary's commission, should have had it. Crit WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 59 couldn't have wanted it less, so he got it. And that kept the vampire with her hidden agenda out of things, but at a personal cost only Tempus could have decreed. Only Tempus, who had no conscience, could split a Sacred Band pair like he'd split the love-match that had once been Kama and Critias. Suddenly, she found her eyes blurry. She swiped impatiently at them with the back of her forearm. She couldn't afford emotion now; it clouded her judgment. Her anticipation of men was generally good. Of Critias, it was woefully inadequate. Of Strat, her forewarning was little better. Or maybe it was just the fact that Strat was drunk and his horse a numinous creature that caused them to take a shortcut over the White Foal Bridge and down a road leading past Ischade's Foalside home. Zip was transported, in an altered state where every night noise was new and hostile, down by the White Foal's edge where he could barely see the eerie lights from Ischade's house up the bank. He had a wheelbar- row and, at the bank's crest, a wagon. He had three of his militia guard- ing the wagon, but he'd permitted none to come down here. Not to the shrine. No one should touch the piled stones but him, the thing he served had told him. As it had told him to bring it blood, and worse, it had decreed the time and manner of its uptown move. It wanted to live on the Street of Temples, with the gods. Zip had found it a place, an alley behind the Rankan Storm God's temple, and there it swore it would be content to stay. And he'd found it a new sacrifice, a special gift that one of his girls had brought him. The girl wanted a job on the Street of Lanterns and deliver- ance from Ratfall. In exchange for what she'd found on the Downwind beach, Zip was happy to oblige. The red-eyed thing that lived inside the stones would tike its new gift, Zip was sure. He hunkered down beside the knee-high pile and said, "Look here, Lord, I've got a present for you, when we're moved. But now I've got to start on the stones, by myself if you won't let my boys help." He waited for a reply, but only a glimpse of a burning red eye and a sound like shifting weight came to him in response. What was it he served here? Most times, it didn't speak. He was prompted without words to do this or that. He'd get a feeling of a pres- ence, and the things he brought it—pieces of human flesh, skins of warm blood, precious baubles—would disappear. Was it inimical only to Rankans, or to everyone? He wanted it to be his friend. He wanted it to >0 AFTERMATH ?e the Ilsigs* friend, guardian of the revolution, since he was bound to iave one. He wanted it to show itself, magnificent and powerful, and help bring jown Zip's enemies. So far, all it had done was take the sacrifices, give him bad dreams, and let him know it wanted to move uptown. So did they all. So did all of Zip's Ratfall movers, everyone trapped in the Maze and policed to wits* end. So did the twelve-year-old mothers and one-legged fathers of Zip's revolution, which he'd never wanted. He might have disavowed the struggle if Tempus hadn't tagged him. But Tempus had. Zip didn't understand why the Rankan powers wanted Zip's help, or the PFLS on its side. The Rankans wouldn't believe that there really wasn 't a PFLS when he tried to explain that a score of gang members with lamb's blood and paintbrushes didn't make a political movement. But since his thieves and mendicants would receive the protection of what police Crit had in Sanctuary if they took the night shift, and Zip took responsibility, his entry into the power structure and polite . . . society . . . had just happened. It wasn't being co-opted by the enemy that bothered him the most. What bothered him the most was that his bad boys and girls were doing exactly what they'd done before—extort, blackmail, roust and rough- house, bum and plunder—and doing it now with the protection and for the benefit of the state. It didn't make any sense, until it made all the sense in the world. And when Zip realized what Tempus had done to him, it had been too late. Zip was already part of the establishment, a hated enforcer, a dog with a Rankan collar, and his militia no better than any of the cannon fodder in Walegrin's demoralized army. They hadn't triumphed over the opposi- tion, they had become it. They weren't the revolution, they were the sustaining force behind the injustice that had created them. When he'd said that—shouted it, actually—to Crit in fury, the cynical Stepson had flashed white teeth and said, "The more things change, pud, the more they stay the same. What's your problem? Not having fun now that you're legal? It's all your type knows how to do, and this way you won't end up handiess or headless because of it. You're talent, and we're the talent scouts. Thank your slime gods you've been discovered and put to work before you ended up greasing some slaver's wagon wheels." That was another thing that bothered Zip: Critias seemed to know more about Zip's affairs than anybody could. "Slime gods" was an obvi- ous reference to the altar. And as for the slavers . . . Zip had sold more than one soul down that river of sighs, to finance the revolution. But then WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 61 it had been a matter of conscience. Now it was a godsdamned state business, for pork's sake. Gayle, the 3rd commando liaison man, had told him not to mind it, just make his list of expendables. He hated himself these days, as much as he hated Kama, the twit who had gotten him mixed up in all this, and her damned 3rd Commando ethos that excused the foulest misdeeds as exigencies. "Whatever works" might work for the Riddler's daughter and her lot of death dealers, but it didn't work for Zip. Especially when, if he wasn't careful, he was going to become just like them. So here he had this altar, this god or whatever it was, this eater of sacrifices that never exactly said it could expiate his sins, wipe him clean, but surely must mean it. It was the thing in the altar with its red eyes that was making him believe there was some method to all his madness. It had a plan. It wanted Zip to infiltrate the Rankans and the Beysibs, to leam how to command and the weaknesses of their joint enemies. It was a living thing in there—or at least a real thing, which other gods weren't, as far as Zip could tell. It had wants and needs. It wanted flesh and it needed blood and it wanted to move uptown and it needed Zip to be the militia commander to serve it.'He had to serve something. He couldn't justify what he and his little band of rebels were doing otherwise. He had to have a Cause and the red eyes in the altar, the slurping sound of fresh blood being drunk and the godlike belches after- wards, these were his Cause. And only the river god knew what it wanted of Zip, but it did want him. Nobody had ever wanted him before. Then came, all at once, Kama and the Riddler and the river god and . . . No, Kama had come before the god, but that didn't matter. It mattered that he got the stones uptown. With a quill he marked each stone as he lifted it from the pile into his wheelbarrow. When the barrow was full, he could almost see into the heart of the altar. But then he had to wheel the barrow up the slope, no easy task, and when he'd done that and given the stones to his boys to load on their ass- drawn wagon, someone came out of the gloom and hailed him. "Yo," he called back, while motioning his boys to cover the stones in the wagon. "Who comes?" One horse, out of the gloom; a single rider. He walked toward it, hand on his beltknife, his neck aprickle, back stiff. Finally the rider answered, "Zip, it's me." "Frog," Zip cursed under his breath. "Kama, stay there. The footing's tricky. I'll come up." He turned his head and said to his rebels, "Get down there, load the rest of the stones, take 'em where I told you. Careful to mark them and put them back just like they were. I'll catch up." AFTERMATH But he knew he wouldn't. And he knew the god was going to be angry, augh he didn't know what form the god's wrath might take. But then he thought he did: Kama was beautiful, sliding off her horse the diffuse light of a hidden moon. She always hit him that way, no atter how he told himself he didn't need the kind of trouble she repre- nted. And she was trouble, in doeskin boots and leggings, smelling like new- own hay with trail dust in her hair. And all about her person, as clear her velvet thighs and firm breasts as in her face or her sweet breath, ere the indications of her class: her speech, her bearing, the gulf that as between them and never could be bridged, no matter how he tried. And he tried then again, wordlessly and desperately, as if laying her on ;r back in the mud was somehow going to do it. But it didn't. It never ,d, never would. She laughed softly and accommodated him until urgency overtook her, >o, but it was always the high-born girl with the velvet skin who was umming, who found him exciting for all the wrong reasons, who played 'ith him casually when touching her was probably worth his life if Crit r Molin found them. So when she said, as she quivered, her mouth to his ear, "Strat's here ^ith me, somewhere back there. Don't panic, just be quick," all his assion threatened to ebb, then exploded when her nails ran down his ack. "Damn you," he said, rolling over and off her, the best rejection he ould manage and far too late. "Stand in line for that," she chuckled, her fingers reaching for him, railing along him, tapping him intrusively with unspeakable truths. "It's >een too long since we've done this." He was staring up at the clouds which hid the moon like a translucent ity wall. "Not long enough by half. Not when you're sleeping in with >riests and commanders-in-chief. I'm a lowly watch officer, remember? 'm gettin' over you. Got something of my own now." Like he hadn't, before. He bit his lip and almost looked away from her. 3ut he couldn't. It was her damned body that did this to them both, •very time. Riddler's daughter, enemy of the blood, twice his experience ind probably twice his brains. What did he think he was doing? Then he thought he knew what she was doing: "Zip," she said in a ieductive tone he wished he'd heard long minutes earlier, "don't move :hat pile of stones. You don't know what you're disturbing. None of us to." He sat bolt upright. "Now I get it. You ask nice, and Strat's along to ask nasty if I don't agree, right? Well, it's none of your business, Rankan WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 63 whore." He jerked to his feet, fumbling with his pants. He couldn't see his fingers clearly and blinked fiercely, trying to lace himself together. "Don't come around me no more, hear? Not on your father's business or because one of your boyfriends thinks I need it. I don't. And I never will, not this way." She was up, too, calling his name. He couldn't run from her, not from a woman where some of his boys might see. He remembered the time she'd nursed him back from the grave's edge, and the way she'd started all this, kissing him when he was too weak to do the sensible thing and bolt. She liked 'em helpless, hurt, battle-scarred and war-weary, he knew. He couldn't figure what Molin had, but power was a legendary aphrodis- iac. And like her father, she spread it around. He couldn't handle her. He kept wanting to treat her like a Ratfall girl —claim her, claim exclusivity with her. He had a comical vision of him- self sitting at some strategy table with her, all silked and leathered and shiny brass-plated in Ranke where her kind moved jade pieces represent- ing armies on marble mapboards. And jammed his hands in his pockets, walking hurriedly away. "Zip," she called, catching up, reaching out, and he couldn't seem to jerk his elbow away. "We need you. /need you. And you owe me this—" He stopped. He should have known it would come to that- "Right, we're all working together now and anyway, one time you saved my ass so I'm yours to command? No chance, lady. These're Ilsig matters, and you ain't one. Understand, or do I have to say it in Rankene?" "I understand that you found some sort of talisman on the beach and that if you give it to that . . . thing . . . you've been feeding human flesh to, you might not be able to finish what you start. If you've got to move the stones, I'll make a deal with you." He crossed his arms and looked down at her. At least he had that advantage: he was taller. He said; "Go on, let's hear it." "I won't tell anyone about the altar, or what's in it, as long as no perceptible trouble comes from it, if you'll give me the talisman you were going to give to it." "How do you find this crap out?" he blurted. "Is it Randal, your pet mage? You been following me? What?" She just looked up at him, her eyes full of a surety and power that her little, female body shouldn't have been able to contain, let alone radiate. It was Tempus's blood in her, some more-than-human attribute, he was certain. He said then, "No. I'm not doing anything like that. Why should I?" and turned to go back down the hill. ^ AFTERMATH And Straton was there, on that freakish bay horse everybody knew ?out, come from nowhere, out of nothing, leaning on his saddlehom, .eaning his thumbnail with a glittering blade. There, right between Zip nd the path down to the riverbank. "Going somewhere, pud?" said Strat. "Strat," said Kama, "I can handle this." "I was just leaving," Zip replied. "No you can't," said Strat to both of them. Then: "Zip, what she /ants, you give her. What she ordered, you do. Or deal with me. Kama, nere's something more important than piffles going on out there. Finish /ith your boy toy and let's get going." Kama winced but held out her hand steadily and said to Zip, "Either ive me the talisman, or Strat and I are going down there and crush five T six of those stones. Do you want to risk that, and what will follow if he three of us have a falling-out?" Zip looked from the big fighter to the slight woman and saw a shared mrpose there; an implacable, uncaring deadliness common among those ure that their Cause was worth serving. He had to leam to match their pirit. Until then, he'd never win against them. He reached into his beltpouch and handed her the object a girl had bund in the seawrack. It hardly glittered. It wasn't even gold, just ironze. "Here, take it. And take out your lust somewhere else, from now )n. I don't want to mess with you no more." He heard Strat's raw titter as he stalked away, and it scratched blood 'rom his soul- He wondered if the thing in the altar would consider the extenuating circumstances under which he'd lost its gift. And what would happen if it did not. Ischade's Foalside home was dimly lit, numinous. When they got there, Kama recognized Crit's gray horse and squeezed her eyes shut. No wonder Strat had come running to get her: Crit at Ischade's was naphtha too close to a torch. "Gods, Strat, we both still love him, you know?" "I figure," Strat agreed in an odd tone. "But he doesn't love us. Get him out of there, Kama. If I go in, it's just more trouble. She isn't going to take kindly to him sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong." Kama was already off her horse, handing Strat its reins. "I know. You stay here, there's no use of you two getting into a brawl over this." Poised to sprint for the door, she turned back: "Strat, we have to get used to things the way my father left them. It hurts all of us. Crit didn't want this command. Not this way." "That and a soldat will still get you laid at Myrtis's." WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 65 Bitterness unanswerable. Kama sprinted for the door she'd always shunned, behind which was something she didn't want anything to do with: Ischade. Through the gate, up the steps, and stop, hearing your own breathing, wondering what you'll do if she's hurt him, ensorcelled him, gotten her claws into him like Strat, and Janni, and Stilcho and the rest . , . Knocking with your heart pounding louder, suddenly aware of more than one male in there behind that forbidding door, and hoping those other voices aren't undead voices. You've only seen the undeads at a distance, and even the memory raises gooseflesh . . . "Ah, Madame Is- chade, I'm here for Crit." Blurted like a fool in a voice higher than you've heard yourself use since school days. Inky eyes deeper than any uncursed well, a pale face whose features are somehow indiscernible, and a hand cold as anything Kama could remember touching. "Good," nodded the creature in her cowl. Behind her were colors, rioting jewel tones, but Ischade was all white and black. Black. "Come in." Black eyes, so deep you could sleep in them. - Don't fall into any trap. Don't look at her too long. "Crit?" On tiptoes. "Crit?" The swathed shape moves away. "C/7Y?" There he is, with two men she recognized: Vis, and a beggar with a stutter, a creature called Mor-am. Wrong company, wrong place, wrong something going down here. Kama shivered and feit throwing stars she'd gotten from Niko nestled in her belt. Could you kill anything here? Would it stay dead? Could she take out the beggar, the mere, and Ischade if Crit needed that much help? She could try, couldn't do less. But then Crit came slowly to the door, his gait telegraphing annoyance, but nothing worse. "Good evening," he said and Kama couldn't figure where the vampire had disappeared to. "What brings you here, Kama?" He somehow shouldered her outside and then the door was closed, his hands on her shoulders, tight and hard, digging. "Fool," Crit whispered, "don't mix in this. I've got enough troubles." His lips hardly moved when he spoke; the hollows under his cheeks were too deep; his whole bearing was wrong and she was terrified. "Crit, gods, whatever it is, you can't do it alone. Strat's with me, we're here to—" "Strat? With you? He bunks here, Kama. Sleeps here. Does whatever he does here. For her. Not us. Go away. I'm finding someone for Torchholder. Special orders." She tried to shake off his grip. It wouldn't shake. She said defiantly, "Whatever you're doing, I'm doing. Special orders." 66 AFTERMATH He couldn't verify that, not without going to Randal. And Randal might lie for Kama, might say Tempus had sent a message. The touch of him made her ache and she suddenly wondered whether if, for just one night, every lover in Sanctuary could be in the right bed, things might straighten out. Critias's usually handsome Syrese face had none of its gentility tonight; it was a fright mask, just shields for eyes and a slash where his mouth should be- He tucked in his chin, bowed his head to stare into her face, then shook his head infinitesimally: "You want in, fine. We're going up- town to the ruined blocks, see if we can't find Tasfalen in one of the houses left standing there. That's where she says to look. Me, the two backstreeters she owns, and you. But no Strat." "Crit, he—" "Can't be trusted. Too much her creature. Tell him to back off, out of sight till I leave. Tell him if he wants to talk to me, get rid of the horse as a sign of good faith. Or of returning sanity. I don't need a ghost horse, or a ghost rider, which is what he's becoming. Go on. Tell him. Then meet me at the gate." He gave her a little push and she wished he felt so strongly about her, even if those feelings were as hard and fierce as what he felt for Strat. Like a page in court, she ran back to Strat's horse and said, '"He says he's going uptown to find Tasfalen for Torchholder. Doesn't want you involved. We'll talk to you iater. You stay with Ischade. If this goes wrong, we need someone on the outside who knows where we went and what happened. And we may need Ischade's—your help." "He didn't say that." *'No, he didn't. I'm going with him, and I'm saying it." "I'll come—" "He did say that, Strat. He wants you here, just in case . . ." It sounded like what it was, a whitewash. Strat's horse backed a few steps and from there she heard Straton say, "Go on, then. Ischade's warned him off, told him something. I'll find out what. You need help, you'll get it." His voice was thick. She was glad she couldn't see his face. She ran blindly to her horse, grabbed a handful of mane, vaulted to its back, and urged the skittish roan toward the iron gate where weird flowers bloomed. In her belt, the talisman she'd taken from Zip seemed hot against her leathers, hot enough to make her sweat. It was the proximity to Ischade's wards, she told herself- Nothing to fret over. She had plenty to worry about without adding the talisman into the bargain. WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 67 Crit crossed one leg over his saddle's pommel and lit a smoke, staring at the building across the street. No sign on its steps or to either side of the rubble they'd passed getting here, of the whirlwinds and firestorm of destruction that had ravaged Tasfalen's ancestral home. This building was intact, its shutters drawn. The vampire had been certain of where to look, but uncertain that looking was wise. "She said," Crit told Kama, "that Tasfalen's in there, with Haught. You remember Haught." "I remember," Kama said through clenched teeth. Mor-am and Vis were off to one side, ordered to accompany them by Ischade, who evidently was in charge of more than her Foalside cottage. Damn Tempus, for putting Crit between sorcerous rocks and political hard places. Vis had brought him to Mor-am, who'd grinned and brought him to Ischade with more satisfaction than Crit liked. And the vampire had been civil. Both of them had kept Strat's name out of the conversation. "Our mutual friend" was what they called Straton, and because of that friend, Ischade was willing to tell Crit where to look. And to warn him: "There is more, Critias, in that home than just two men in a house. Do not go inside, but merely open the doors—if you can." This was said for Strat's sake, Crit knew, not his own. He unclenched a fist with difficulty and found he'd dug his nails into his palm, that his fingers were stiff from the clench. "She said," he told Kama, "you'd have the right key for this lock." "Excuse me?" The woman on the roan kneed her mount closer. "You heard me. Got anything on you that might do the trick?" "You're sure she didn't mean that metaphorically?" And Crit knew what Kama was alluding to: Tempus and an inhuman sprite had coupled before a magically locked door uptown, and things had happened. "I don't care what she meant, we're not trying anything like that. What have you got that might work?" "Keys," said Kama with maddening common sense. "Lots of keys. To my place, the guardhouse, the Shambles safe house, Molin's—" "Spare me the list. Let's try some." He swung first one leg and then the other over his gray's withers, reaching for his crossbow as soon as his feet hit the ground. A bolt might smash the lock, even if it were a stout one. They drop-tied the horses without a word, a sign both of them were thinking this might not be survivable. Crit cast a look at Kama, wonder- ing how she'd managed to insinuate herself into this so fast, so deftly. And admitting he was glad to have someone there. He was a Sacred )8 AFTERMATH Bander, trained to depend on a partner. He wouldn't have tried this alone, and Vis wasn't the sort of man you could trust your right side to. Not that Kama was any sort of man at all. Having crossed the street, Crit looked back once because he'd heard Vis's voice—not words, just a tone. And saw a wave of farewell so elo- quently hostile and so gloating that he almost shot the mere there and then. But Kama read his mind and touched his arm. "They're Ischade's. They'll wait. They'll run back with word if we don't come out. We need that.'* "Crap," Crit said. "Agreed," Kama said with a ghost of her father's smile. Then they climbed the steps and Crit put his back against the stone, crossbow ready, attempting to cover every avenue of attack while Kama tried key after key and cursed like a Nisibisi freeman. Finally she said, "No luck. Nothing works." And slumped against the doorjamb. They looked at each other too long, and Crit had to look away. It was in that silence that they heard something move inside, behind the stout wood of the door. Then they looked at each other again, "Want to knock?" Kama said lightly. "I don't think so," Crit replied in the same tone. "We could start digging at the wood with—" "Wait," said Kama, simultaneously digging in her belt. "This, maybe." She held out a piece of bronze about half the length of her hand and shaped like a knobbed bar or rod. "Never fit," he said critically, still holding his crossbow at the ready, still glancing from shadow to shadow down the quiet street. Still watch- ing Vis and Mor-am as best he could. "Might not have to. It washed up on the beach. I heard about it from some of my ... people. Turned a gold coin to lead, and copper to clay, in the finder's purse." "So?" "So, let's see if it'll do something to that metal." "We're here." Crit shrugged, trying to ignore the implications. Kama wasn't the finder. Kama had appropriated this thing from someone, for her own purposes- And she'd heard about it through some informer of whom Crit was totally ignorant. Nothing was going to work right in Sanctuary unless they all started pulling together. But what he wanted to do to Kama right then wouldn't facilitate anything of the sort. She shrugged, too, added a sour twist of her thin lips, and bent to the WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 69 door. He didn't dare look away to watch, but he heard her tap bronze against bronze. And curse. And tap again, and chortle. "So?" he said when she stood up and carefully put the talisman back in her belt. "So, do we want to be polite, now that the lock's no problem?" He took one hand away from the crossbow and, balancing it on his hip, felt for the lock. It was gooey. He brought his fingers to his lips and smelled White Foal mud, rank with rot. He swore and asked her to explain herself. "I heard," she said, "it might be something like this. That's all." "Great." He spat over his shoulder. "Next time you 'hear' of some- thing like this, you come to me with it." "I did." "Beforehand," he said, just as there was a scuffling sound and then a dragging noise behind the door and he and Kama jumped back in unison. The door opened like a casket's top. And there, behind it, stood some- thing very much like Tasfalen, the popinjay noble who'd been missing so long. "Yessss," said the noble in an entirely horrible voice, a voice that seemed not to have been used for a thousand years. And behind this shape, Crit could see another: Haught. And over those two images, he saw superimposed the glowing counte- nance of Ischade, a slight crease between her eyes, and Ischade was shaking her head, her lips forming a word. And that word was "Run." In his inner ear, he heard it again; Run, if you value your soul. "Come on, Kama. Sorry to disturb you, Tasfalen," said Crit as he backed down the stairs, Kama's arm in a deathgrip and still holding the loaded crossbow one-handed. "We just needed to verify your where- abouts. Stop by the palace when you can—Molin Torchholder wants to see you." By the time he'd finished saying alt of that, he'd dragged Kama half- way to the street and she was whispering urgently, "What's the matter with you? Lost your mind? Your nerve?'* "Finished, that's all. We're finished here. I have no reason to arrest that man. I only had to find him." His voice was shaking and Kama heard it. He didn't look at her as they made for their horses. He couldn't stand to see scorn in her eyes. But he saw it in the eyes of Ischade's two waiting minions, and it burned like hellfire. "What's the matter, Stepson, Tempus take your balls upcountry?" Vis shouted from a safe distance as Crit mounted up. 70 AFTERMATH He got off one quarrel, but his aim was half-hearted. It smashed harm- lessly against the brick beside Vis's head. And then there was Kama to deal with, slouched in her saddle, frown- ing. He said, "We have to report this to Torchholder. I need you. Let's go." She reined her horse after his, either unwilling to dispute his statement or unable. One way or the other, he'd let the matter of the talisman go if she'd just give him a chance. How he was going to keep Kama with him tonight, Crit couldn't fathom, but he was going to give it a try. Torchholder would have to make do with a written report. It was just too damned cold in Sanctuary to sleep alone tonight. The sky was beginning to lighten, turning regal above the temple tops. Zip's black sweatband was sopping though the waning night was as chill on the Street of Temples as it had been at the White Foal's edge. He straightened up from the piled stones in the alleyway, hand to the small of his back. He was alone now. He'd sent his boys scurrying with a flurry of invective when he'd realized what they'd done. Or what he'd let them do. They'd touched the stones, because of Kama and Strat. Worse, they'd mismarked the ones they'd touched. Zip had spent the rest of the night trying to sort out the mess. And all he had to show for his labors was an empty pile of stones that wouldn't sit exactly right, wouldn't form the beehive shape they'd had down at the riverbank. One more time, he put the stones he was sure of—the top three—in place. And one more time they fell inward, toppled others, and ended in a jumble in the alley beside the Storm God of Ranke's temple. And again, as the stones rolled and at last came to rest, the ground beneath Zip's feet seemed to tremble. This time, he hardly noticed the earth's tremors over his own. The rivergod wasn't pleased, he could feel it. Maybe it was gone, or just wouldn't come here because he'd botched it, but Zip had an awful feeling that the red-eyed thing was more than a little miffed about the disarrayed condition of its home. Worse, he wasn't sure any more whether this site was good enough, being not quite on the Street of Tem- ples, but somewhat off the thoroughfare. If only his boys had marked the stones. If only Kama and Strat hadn't interfered. If only the day would stay its coming a little while longer. Zip had been in tight spots before. Given time and calm, he could sort the matter out. There were thirty-three stones in all. Some of them had Zip's careful WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 71 marks. It couldn't be impossible to figure out which stones must com- prise the bottom row. But it was. He couldn't do it. He'd tried four times. And now the dawn was threatening to break. First the sky would regain its blueness, eating up the stars. Then royal purple would creep along the temples' walls, then gouts of red and orange flame to eat the darkness. And when the celadon and rose of true dawn came, with them would come the priests and acolytes, padding toward their morning duties. Zip would be discovered where Ilsigs feared to tread, in the reaches of a Rankan temple. And then the rivergod would have its revenge. He knew it was that. He was shaking all over, anguished and weak. Too weak to run, too tired to hide. It was as if all his spirit had leeched away with the darkness, as if his soul was as dismantled as the home of stone he couldn't rebuild. He squatted down beside the tumbled blocks of half-dressed limestone, nearly in tears. He wanted to make amends, he hadn't meant to let the unclean hands of his rebels desecrate the rivergod's temple. He'd tried to do the right thing ... And, in extremis like so many men before him over thousands of years, Zip began to pray: Lord, he asked wordlessly, eyes closed, hands upon the stone he'd marked himself, the capstone of this puzzle he couldn't solve, 0 Lord, forgive thy servant. Evildoing has befallen me. In my fool- ishness, I have sinned against thee. Forgive thy servant and help me to make things right. Help thy servant to make thy temple and I will bring the blood of a virgin under twelve, the eyes of an ox, the penis of a Rankan noble—whatever thy desire is, just make it known to me and f will do that thing. But help me not fail in the making of thy temple, and give me a sign that this place is acceptable to thee. Before I get my ass hauled off to jail in the bargain, he added, still silent, eyes yet closed. For he'd heard a sound that stiffened him as if he were turned to stone as unyielding as the blocks over which he labored: the click of a horse's hoof against a pebble, the scrape of an iron shoe on cobble. Holding his breath, he heard more: the swish of a long tail, the creak of leather, the jingle of harness. Frog, I'm porked for good and all. Obviously, he told himself, this was the god's wrath come upon him. He was going to open his eyes, turn around, and there would be some palace hotshot, some regular army mover, some Beysib lady fighter, wait- ing to take him off to the Hall of Justice for screwing around on the grounds of the Storm God's temple. Not even his commission as watch officer could save him now. Not from the penalty for desecrating holy ground when that ground was holy to Rankans. He opened his eyes and looked straight ahead, at the jumble of altar 72 AFTERMATH stones. Well, he'd tried. He wondered what was going to happen to the altar stones, to the god's home, and to the god himself. Would it magi- cally get itself and its stones back to the river where it was safe? And if it couldn't, what would then befall poor Zip, who'd managed to pork up a god's life as well as his own? He bit his tip and then, decided, turned from the waist to face his fate. There, behind him, was a single horseman. The horse loomed in the gloom, its great dark chest seeming to stare at Zip with a panther's eyes, a panther's gaping, toothsome jaws. Zip blinked, and realized that what faced him was no creature half cat, half horse, but a warhorse wearing a pantherskin shabraque. And the panther who had given its skin to blanket this horse had been large, with glowing eyes, and so magnificent that its head had been not merely skinned, but stuffed so that glassy eyes stared at Zip as angrily as living eyes might have. The horse was the color of White Foal clay, its mane and tail and stockings black. Its bridle and reins were of woven stuff like swampgrass, and from it wafted a marshy odor. It pawed the ground, neck arched, and only then was Zip's attention drawn to the rider, who was dis- mounting. Zip never remembered scrambling to his feet, only the swing of the rider from his saddle, the cloak as dark as the predawn sky, and the feathered helm that inclined toward him as the rider said, "What have we here?" "Uh, I'm just trying to put this back like it ought to be." Zip waved vaguely behind him, toward the altar stones tumbled there, trying to protect the unassembled shrine with his body. The rider's helmet turned slowly. His visor was down. He was armored in browns; bronze or hardened leather or some combination, Zip couldn't tell. But armored in the way of well-to-do professionals: arms free and bare but for wrist braces, cuirass and loinguard, greaves below his knees, and all of it fitted custom to his body. Slung at his hip was a cavalryman's sword and equipment belt. Behind, on the saddle, Zip could see two shields, long and short, and a bow and quiver, but in the rider's hand was only a spear. Coming toward him without another word, the man used the spear as a staff, digging the ground with its butt. And then, when this faceless apparition was nearly upon him and Zip was beginning to wonder if there were really eyes behind the frightful visor, he finally spoke again: "I see your problem." And he walked right by Zip, whose nose was wrinkled at the salty smell of marsh emanating from him, and on toward the pile of stones. WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 73 "No, don't! Please! Nobody's supposed to touch—" Zip lunged un- thinkingly toward the armored man and the horse behind him screamed and reared, hooves flailing. Zip threw up his arms and dived to the dirt as the horse stalked up- right toward him. At the same time, the armored man turned slowly, from the waist, and held up his spear. The horse came down on all fours and bowed its head, snorting. Zip scrambled to his feet. "Look, like I said, nobody's supposed to touch—" The armored man's head swiveled toward him and the voice from behind the visor said, "This one first." His spear pointed to a certain stone, then jabbed toward it commandingly when Zip only stared. "This one. Now." Zip found his hands on the stone. And then on another, the one that the spear touched next. And another, and another. Zip labored there, under the direction of that spear, until the sky was red and gold and he held the final stone in both his hands, chest heaving. Poised over the pile, afraid that attempting to place the last stone would tumble all the others. Zip blurted breathlessly, "You're sure?" The helmeted head nodded once, up and down, and the spear jabbed forward commandingly. Zip placed the stone atop all the other stones and a spark seemed to jump from the rocks. It bit his hand, crawled up his wrist. It hurt like fire. He staggered back, squinting at the stones suddenly too bright, as if they'd ignited. He shielded his eyes from the glare. A trick of the dawn light, he told himself when he opened his eyes again and the pile was still there, neither burning nor singed, not even smudged, but squat and sturdy. Squat! Sturdy! A rough beehive of stones, solid as the temple wall in whose shadow it rested. Success! Relief flooded Zip. Before he knew it, he was on his knees at the low opening, peering inward, trying to see if the rivergod was there. And he saw something, red and glowing, restless in its appointed dark. And reached out to touch the stones, which were cool and real and snug in place. He pushed on one. It didn't shift. He pushed on two. They didn't budge. He chuckled and then he grinned. He put his cheek to the cool stone, knowing now that the spark that had seemed to bite him was just some phosphorescent insect and the rest had been illusion, a moment of Waking dream. 74 AFTERMATH Because the god was not angry at him—it had come to abide in the temple he had built it! He gave a wordless shout and then remembered the armored man. He got up from the altar, hand already outstretched to thank the stranger, but there was no one there. No man in fighter's garb. No horse in pantherskin shabraque with panther feet dangling from its back. Nothing but increasing daylight in an alley where no Ilsig dared be caught, not even Zip, the third shift watch officer of Sanctuary. "Gotta go, but I'll be back. Lord," he muttered, giving the shrine a final pat before he fled. "I'll be back." Kama's roan had bolted during the night, found some way to slip its harness and make away. "She does it all the time," Kama said to Crit, who was sure someone had gotten into the barn and stolen the mare. "There's no door that beast can't open, no knot she can't chew through. She'll be out at the Stepsons' barracks, mark my words." And that stopped all conjecture about the horse, and Kama's attempt to lighten Crit's mood. It wasn't the Stepsons' barracks any longer, not with so few Stepsons left. Nobody stayed there now. It was too lonely. The place was used for storage of gear and extra horses, but Crit stayed here, at the Shambles safe house; Strat stayed . . . where Strat stayed. Randal, who could have claimed the right, was sleeping in the Mageguild, and Kama herself preferred any number of beds with men in them to a solitary one full of unhappy memories. "I'll go out and check," she said lamely. "You've got to go to work, anyway. See you toni— later?" "Tonight's fine with me," said Crit gently, and then with more fire in him: "If you want to join me over at Ischade's—I can't let this thing with Strat go on like this. I've got to get him out of there." "Why?" Strat had been there for them, in his way. When they'd come back to the guardpost to write their report he'd been waiting, full of Ischade's warnings and a more honest concern. But Crit couldn't un- bend, wouldn't let Strat have an opening so that amends could be made. "She says," Strat had offered, using the unadorned pronoun, as they always did, to represent Ischade; "that there's more trouble coming out of that house than you or youi's can handle. Leave it to us, all right?" Crit hadn't said a word to that at first, just stared at Strat in that way he had that made you want to sink into the earth right there and then. And after too long a pause, he'd said what Kama hoped he wouldn't: "Us, is it? You and her, you mean? Or some of your soulless zombies under mutual command?" Strat had been braced for it, by then. Kama wanted to crawl under the WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 75 table, pretend she didn't understand what was happening and suggest they all go to breakfast—anything but sit there, a mute witness to the rending of a Sacred Band oath. Strat had said only, "Crit, I signed off" on your paperwork, what more do you want? You can't handle this. We won't tell anyone if you don't. Tasfalen's . . . our business. So's Haught. Keep your people away from them, that's all I'm saying." And with that, Strat had left. There was a time Kama would have taken Crit to her bosom on this son of rebound and felt like she'd won something. But the comfort he needed wasn't hers, and all the acrobatics he'd put both of them through so that he could finally fall into an exhausted sleep didn't help what was ailing Critias. Or didn't help enough. Still, she said, "Wait for me tonight," and left him, thinking that, if things were going from bad to worse with Strat, Crit might really need her help. He needed someone's. And Kama knew that, no matter what trouble it caused with Molin or anybody else, what- ever Crit needed, she had to try to give him, Love tends to be like that, even in Sanctuary. Alone in his office, Critias pretended to work on the duty roster until his eyes started to sting. Then he gave it up, having made little progress, and began to put his papers away, thinking that he'd go down to Caravan Square and see if he could find Kama another horse. But as he was leaving, Gayle came in, muttering that there was "some porker outside you'd better take a look at, sir—personal like." "I'm not in the mood," Crit snapped, then said: "Sorry, Gayle, it's not you. It's that damned Zip. Anybody report anything odd last night?" It was Zip's shift, so as to whatever had happened about the stone shrine, Crit didn't expect anything like an honest report from the watch officer. Wouldn't have, even if Zip could write more than his name. "That's what I'm sayin'. Commander: you'd better come have a look at this guy, came in last night to the meres* hostel, claiming all sorts of privilege.-Now he's lookin' for Tempus." Gayle shrugged and grimaced, anticipating Crit's next question. "Didn't tell him anything, either way." "'Just where 'outside' is this fellow?" "Down at the Storm God's temple, like he owned it. Nice horse, nice gear, lots of loose change." "Right. I'm on my way." They all knew the type—they were the type, before Tempus had welded them into something more usable by Empire. Gayle was still hovering and Crit understood why: "Somebody's got to watch the shop, friend." 76 AFTERMATH Gayle screwed up his face. "Forking waste, all this porked-up paper work's somethin' any porkin' fool can do." "Not when it's mine, it isn't. Molin comes by, keep him here, tell him we're making copies and need his signature on something—anything. Try to find out what he's up to on this Tasfalen matter. And let him know that, far as we're concerned, it's closed: we found the man in question, he's not accused of anything, there's nothing more we can do." Gayle was nodding intently, trying to memorize all of that, as Crit left. His gray horse was still where Crit had tethered it, Enlil be praised. If that one disappeared, then it was going to become police business, and fast. But it hadn't. He rubbed its nose and it whickered softly as he mounted up and headed off into the early morning sunlight. The worst thing about this new duty was getting used to sleeping at night, working in the daytime. For Crit's money, sunlight was something you left to the cattle. In Sanctuary, like most other venues he'd worked, what was worth doing got done at night. But command made its demands, and when he got to the Storm God's temple he wished he'd commanded his mage, Randal, to come to the Street of Temples with him. The horse that was tied in front of the temple screamed money and power from every trapping and the pantherskin shabraque it wore was of a style and quality Crit had never seen before. "Where's the owner of this horse?" he demanded of the temple acolyte who'd obviously been paid to watch over it and was doing that from a distance: the shabraque wasn't the only part of this beast with teeth. "In back, Commander, down that alley." The acolyte rolled its eunuch's eyes heavenward as if to say. Don't ask me why these warriors do what they do. Crit looked at the tethered warhorse, whose saddle had hung on it both a large and small shield, and other implements of close and regimented fighting, and blew out a long, slow breath. Crit's dues to the mercenary's guild were still paid up. He rode, rather than walked, down the alley on the southwest side of the Storm God's temple until he came to a man eating a skewer of lamb and drinking from a wineskin, leaning up against the temple wall near a pile of stones. "Life to you," Crit said cautiously, keeping rein contact with his horse's mouth with one hand and his other on the crossbow he could shoot without disengaging from its saddle hook. "And the rest, as follows," said the other man whose helmet, on the pile of stones, was of an ancient style from far to the west. "I'm looking for Tempus." "You've found his first officer." Old habits died hard. "I'm holding the WAKE OF THE RIDDLER 77 bag here till he returns." Everything about this fighter screamed trouble; the fact that he was looking for the Riddler didn't mitigate that: whoever Tempus wanted for his sortie, he'd already contacted. "You'll do, then." "Thanks. Do for what?" "I'm offering my services- Tempus needs a little help here, I was told." The man was Crit's height but somewhat heavier, in his middle years, scarred enough by war and wind and sun to prove him mortal. His head was broad and strong and resembled, more than anything else, a human version of the helmet he'd set on the piled stones. The red-brown eyes in that face held Crit's implacably, and the Stepson had the unmistakable impression that he was being judged. "He's not here, I said." "But the problems are, and you're short-handed, so they say up at the guild hostel." "Who sent you?" Bluntly put. If this fighter was a mere, as he said, the guild records could tell him something about the man he was looking at —if Crit needed to know any more. A quirked smile that showed no teeth. "Your need, for certain—and the Riddler's. The Storm God, if you like." Crit hated this sort of innuendo- The man he was looking at was of a fighting class not usually under his command, and if the newcomer was staying in Sanctuary, some accommodation between them would have to be made. The last thing he needed was a man like this working against him. And if he was what he seemed—an acquaintance of Tempus—then he might represent a light at the end of Crit's personal tunnel. The man leaning against the wall merely chewed on his stick of lamb chunks and eyed Crit and the gray horse until Critias knew he must dismount or create an enemy, When he'd done that, the newcomer threw away his stick of lamb and came toward him. When he reached the pile of stones, he put one foot up on it and retrieved his helmet. "I'm known as Shepherd," he said, and held out his hand. "I bet you are," Crit replied, taking it. Between them was the pile of stones and, somehow, Crit didn't want to touch it. He remembered what Kama had said about Zip and the stones, but it didn't seem anywhere Bear as important as the man before him. "Well, Shepherd, I'm not using niy war name here, so it's just Critias." He disengaged his hand and unconsciously wiped it against his hip. Behind Crit, his horse snorted. Duly prompted, the Stepson said, "We've got plenty of work for the right sort of man, but what kind 78 AFTERMATH depends on how long you're staying. And what sort of references you can produce. More, I hope, than just evidence of the Storm God's favor." "More than gods' favor, yes," said Shepherd, tapping his foot on the pile of stones. "Gods: can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em." He shook his head in mock disgust, to make it clear that the remark was a joke, but it seemed strange to Crit, as strange as this Shepherd come to Sanctuary in the wake of the Riddler. INHERITOR David Drake "You need a dagger, caravan master," said the stranger to Samlor hi) Samt as he began to bring a weapon slowly out from under his cloak. The man hadn't spoken loudly, but there were key words which rang in the air of the Vulgar Unicorn. Weapon words were almost as sure a way to get attention in this bar as the mention of money. Conversation stopped or dropped into a lower key; eyes shifted over beer mugs and dice cups. Samlor was already in the state of tension which gripped any sane man when he walked into this bar in the heart of Sanctuary's Maze district. More than the word "dagger" shocked him now, so that his right hand slipped to the brass pommel and hilt—of nondescript hardwood, plain and serviceable like the man who carried it—of the long fighting knife in his belt sheath. At the same time, Samlor's left arm swept behind him to locate and hold his seven-year-old niece Star. She was with him in this place because there was no place in the world safer for her than beside her mother's brother . . . which was almost another way of saying that there was no safety at all in this life. Almost, because for forty-three years, Samlor hil Samt had managed to do what he thought he had to do, be damned to the price he paid or the cost to whatever stood between him and duty. The stranger shouldn't have called him "caravan master." That's what he was, what he had been ever since he had determined to lift his family from poverty, despite the scorn all his kin heaped on him for dishonoring Ordonian nobility by going into trade. But no one in Sanctuary should 80 AFTERMATH have recognized Samlor; and if they did, he and Star were in trouble much deeper than the general miasma of danger permeating this place. There were people in Sanctuary who actively wished Samlor dead. That was unusual; not because he'd lived a life free from deadly enemies, but because fate or the Cirdonian caravan master himself had carried off most of those direct threats already. When he bedded his camels at night on the trail, Samlor walked the circuit of the laager prodding crevices and holes with a cornel-wood staff flexible enough to reach an arm's length down a circuitous burrow. If there were a hiss or an angry jarring of fangs on the staff, he either blocked the hole or, as the mood struck him, teased the snake into the open to be finished with a whip-swift flick of the staff. That was the only way to prevent beasts and men from being bitten when they rolled in their sleep onto vipers sheltering against mammalian warmth. The caravan routes were a hard school, but applying the lessons he learned there to human enemies had kept Samlor alive longer than would otherwise have been the case. Sanctuary, though, was a problem better avoided than solved—and insoluble besides. Samlor had no intention of seeing and smelling the foulness of this place ever again, until the messenger arrived with the letter from Samlane. It could have been a forgery, though the Cirdonian script on the strip of bark-pulp paper was illegible until it had been wound onto a message staff of the precise length and diameter of the ones Samlor's family had adopted when they were ennobled seventeen generations before. But the hand was right; the message had the right aura of terse presumption that Samlor would do his sister's will in this matter . . . And the paper was browned enough with age, despite having been locked in a banker's strong room, that the document might well have been written before Samlane died with her brother's knife through her belly and through the thing she carried in her womb. Samlor couldn't imagine what inheritance could be worth the risk of bringing Star back to Sanctuary, but his sister had been foolishly destruc- tive only of herself. If the legacy which would come to Star at age seven were that important, then it was Samlor's duty as the child's uncle to see that she received it. It was his duty as the father as well, but that was something he thought about only when he awakened in the bleak darkness. So he was in Sanctuary again, where no one was safe; and a man he didn't know had just identified him. Star put a hand on her uncle's elbow, to reassure him with her pres- ence and the fact she understood the tension. INHERITOR 81 The trio of punks by the door glanced sidelong with greasy eyes. They were street toughs, too young to have an identity beyond the gang mem- bership they proclaimed with matching yellow bandannas and high boots that made sense only for horsemen. They were dangerous, the gods knew, the way a troop of baboons was dangerous. Like baboons, they stank, yammered, and let vicious hostility to outsiders serve in situations where humans would have found intelligence to be useful. Four soldiers, out of uniform but obvious from the way their hair was cut short to fit beneath a helmet, sat at a table near the bar with a pimp and a woman. The pimp gave Samlor and the situation an appraising look. The woman eyed the caravan master blearily, because he happened to be standing where her eyes were more or less focused. And the soldiers, after momentary alertness to the possibility of a brawl, resumed their negotiations regarding a price for the woman to go down on all four of them in the alley outside. There were a dozen other people in the tavern, besides the slope-shoul- dered tapster and the barmaid—the only other woman present—who slid between tables, too tired to slap at the hands that groped her and too jaded to care. The drinkers, solitary or in pairs, were nondescript though clothed within a fair range of wealth and national origin. They could be identified as criminals only because they chose to gather here. "I don't need a dagger," said Samlor, releasing Star to free his left hand as his right lifted the wedge of his own belt knife a few inches up in its sheath. "I have my own." There was nothing fancy about Samlor's weapon. The blade was a foot long with two straight edges. The metal had no ornamentation beyond the unsharpened relief cuts which would permit the user to short-grip the weapon with an index finger over the crosshilt. It was forged of a good grade of steel—though, again, nothing exceptional. Recently, a few blades of Enlibar steel had appeared. These were forged from iron alloyed with a blue-green ore of copper which had been cursed by earth spirits, kobolds. The ore could be smelted only by magi- cal means, and it was said to give an exceptional toughness to sword blades. Samlor had been interested in the reports, but he'd survived as long as he had by sticking to what he was sure would work. He left the experi- ments with kobold steel to others. "You'll want this anyway," said the stranger, lifting his dagger by its crosshilt so that the pommel was toward Samlor. Not a threat, only a man with something to sell, thought the Cirdonian •s he sidled away from the stranger to get to the bar. Harmless, almost certainly—but Samlor moved to his left, guiding Star ahead of him so 82 AFTERMATH INHERITOR 83 that his body was between her and the weapon that the other man in- sisted on displaying. The fellow had sized up Samlor as he entered the Vulgar Unicorn, guessing his occupation from his appearance. A con man's trick, perhaps, but not an assassin's. There was no reason to take chances. "When are we going to sleep, uncle?" asked Star with a thin whine on the last syllables which meant she was really getting tired. That was understandable, but it meant she was likely to balk when she needed to obey- She might even call him "Uncle Samlor" despite having been warned that Samlor's real name would make both of them targets. Star was an unusual child, but she was a child nonetheless. "Two mugs of blue John," said the Cirdonian, loudly enough for the tapster halfway down the bar to hear him. They already had the attention of the fellow, an athlete gone to fat but still powerful. He was balding, and his scars showed that he had been doing this work or work equally rough for many years. If something had cost him his left thumb during that time—he was still the one walking around to tell the tale, wasn't he? '7 want—" Star piped up- "And two beers to wash it down," Samlor said loudly, cutting her off. As his left hand reached down for his belt purse, he let it linger for a moment where Star's hood covered the whorl of white hair that was the source of her name. She quieted for the moment, though the touch was gentle. Star's mother had immersed herself in arts that had ultimately killed her—or had led her to need to die. Her child had terrifying powers when necessity and circumstances combined to bring them out. But Samlor hil Samt had no need of magic to frighten anyone who knew him as well as the child did. He would not cuff her across the room; not here, not ever. His rage was as real as the rock glowing white in the bowels of a volcano. The Cirdonian's anger bubbled beneath -a crust of control that split only when he chose that it should, and he would never release its destruction on his kin, blood of his blood ... his seed. Star was old enough to recognize the fury, and wise enough to avoid it even when she was fatigued. She patted her protector's hip. The coin Samlor held between the middle and index finger of his left hand was physically small but minted from gold. It was an indication to the sharp-eyed tapster that his customer wanted more than drink, and a promise that he would pay well for the additional service. The man behind the bar nodded as he scooped clabbered milk from a stoneware jug under the bar. There was no drink more refreshing than blue John to a dusty traveler, tired and hungry but too dry to bolt solid food. It was a caravaner's drink —and Samlor was a caravaner, obvious to anyone, even before he or- dered. He shouldn't have been surprised at the way a stranger had ad- dressed him. Samlor wore a cloak, pinned up now to half-length as he would wear it for riding. When he slept or stood in a chili breeze, it could cover him head to toe. The fleece from which it was tightly woven had a natural blue-black color, but it had never been washed or dyed. Lanolin remain- ing in the wool made the garment almost waterproof. The tunic he wore beneath the cloak was wool also, but dyed a neutral russet color. Starting out before dawn on the caravan road, Samlor would wear as many as three similar tunics over this one, stripping them off and binding them to his saddle as the sun brightened dazzlingly on the high passes. The bottom layer against his skin was of silk, the only luxury Samlor allowed himself or even desired while he was on the road. He was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested man even without the added bulk of his cloak, but his wrists would have been thick on a man of half again his size. The skin of his hands and face was roughened by a thou- sand storms whipping sand or ice crystals across the plains, and it was darkened to an angry red that mimicked the tan his Cirdonian genes did not have the pigment to support. When Samlor smiled, as he did occasionally, the expression flitted across his face with the diffidence of a visitor sure he's knocking at the wrong address. When he barked orders, whether to men or beasts, his features stayed neutral and nothing but assurance rang in his chill, crisp tones. When Samlor hil Samt was angry enough to kill, he spoke in soft, bantering tones. The muscles stretched across his cheekbones and pulled themselves into a visage very different from his normal appearance; a visage not altogether human. He rarely became that angry; and he was not angry now, only cautious and in need of information before he could lead Star and her legacy out of this damnable city. The clabbered milk was served in masars, wooden cups darkened by the sweaty palms of hundreds of previous users. As the tapster paused, midway between reaching for the coin now or drawing the beer first, Samlor said, "I'm trying to find a man in this town, and I'm hoping that you might be able to help me. Business, but not . . . serious business." That was true, though neither the tapster nor any other man in this dive was likely to believe it. Not that they'd care, either, so long as they'd been paid in honest coin. 84 AFTERMATH "A regular?" asked the balding man softly as his hand did, after all, cover the gold which Samlor was not yet willing to release. "I doubt it," said the Cirdonian with a false, fleeting smile. "His name's Setios. A businessman, perhaps, a banker, as like as not. Or just possibly, he might be, you know , . , someone who deals with magic. I was told he keeps a demon imprisoned in a crystal bottle." You could never tell how mention of sorcery or a wizard was going to strike people. Some very tough men would blanch and draw away—or try to slit your throat so that they wouldn't have to listen to more. The tapster only smiled and said, "Somebody may know him. I'll ask around." He turned. The coin disappeared into a pocket of his apron. "Uncle, I don't like—' "And the beers, friend," Samlor called in a slightly louder voice. There was little for a child to drink in a place like this. Star didn't have decades of caravan life behind her, the days when anything wet was better than the smile of a goddess- The beer was a better bet than what- ever passed for wine, and either would be safer than the water. "This is a very special knife," said a voice at Samlor's shoulder. The Cirdonian turned, face flat. He was almost willing to disbelieve the senses that told him that the stranger was pursuing his attempt to sell a dagger. In this place, a tavern where unwanted persistence generally led to somebody being killed. "Get away from me," Samlor said in a clear, clipped voice, "or I'll put you through a window." He nodded toward the wall facing the street, where wicker lattices screened the large openings to either side of the door. The sides of the room were ventilated by high, horizontal slits that opened onto alleys even more fetid than the interior of the tavern. Samlor meant exactly what he said, though it would cause trouble that he'd really rather avoid. Star wasn't the only one whom fatigue had left with a hair trigger. The man wasn't a threatening figure, only an irritating one. He was shorter than Samlor by an inch or two and fine-boned to an almost feminine degree. He wore a white linen kilt with a scarlet hem, cinched up on a slant by a belt of gorgeous gold brocade. His thigh-length cape was of a thick, soft, blue fabric, but his torso was bare beneath that garment. The skin was coppery brown, and his chest, though hairless, was flat-muscled and clearly male. The stranger blinked above his smile and backed a half step. Samlor caught the beers that the tapster glided to him across the surface of the bar, "Here, Star," said the Cirdonian, handing one of the containers down INHERITOR 85 to his charge. "It's what there is, so don't complain. We'll do better another time, all right?" The beer was in leathern jacks, and the tar used to seal the leather became a major component of the liquid's flavor. It was an acquired taste —and not one Samlor, much less his niece, had ever bothered to acquire. At that, the smoky flavor of the tar might be less unpleasant than the way the brew here would taste without it. The tapster had crooked a finger toward a dun-colored man at a comer table. Samlor would not have noticed the summons had he not been sure it was coming, but the two men began to talk in low voices at the far end of the bar. The tavern was lighted by a lantern behind the bar and a trio of lamps hanging from a hoop in the center of the room. The terra-cotta lamps had been molded for good luck into the shape of penises. There was no sign that the clientele of this place was particularly fortunate, and the gods knew they were not well lighted. The cheap lamp oil gave off as much smoke as flame, so that the tavern drifted in a haze as bitter as the faces of its denizens. "Really, Master Samlor," said the stranger, "you must look at this dagger." The Cirdonian's name made time freeze for him, though no one else in the Vulgar Unicorn appeared to take undue notice. The flat of the weapon was toward Samlor. The slim man held the hilt between thumb and forefinger and balanced the lower edge of the blade near the tip of his other forefinger—not even a razor will cut with no more force than gravity driving it. Samlor's own belt knife was clear of its sheath, drawn by reflex without need for his conscious mind to reach to the danger. But the stranger was smiling and immobile, and the dagger he held . . . The dagger was very interesting at that. Its pommel was faceted with the ruddy luster of copper. The butt itself was flat and narrow, angling wider for a finger's breadth toward the hilt and narrowing again in a smooth concave arc. The effect was that of a coffin, narrow for the corpse's head and wider for his shoulders until it tapered toward his feet again. The hilt was unusual and perhaps not attractive, but the true wonder of the weapon was its blade. Steel becomes more brittle as it becomes harder. The greatest mystery of the swordsmith's art is the tempering that permits blades to strike without shattering while remaining hard enough to cleave armor or an Opponent's weapon. A way around the problem is to weld a billet of soft iron to a billet of 86 AFTERMATH steel hardened with the highest possible carbon content. The fused bar can then be hammered flat and folded back on itself, the process repeated until iron and steel are intermingled in thousands of layers thinner than the edge of a razor. Done correctly, the result is a blade whose hardness is sandwiched within malleable layers that absorb shock and give the whole resilience; but the operation requires the flats to be cleaned before each refolding, lest oxide scale weaken the core and cause it to split on impact like a wand of whalebone. Few smiths had the skill and patience to forge such blades; few purchasers had the wealth to pay for so much expert labor. But this stranger seemed to think Samlor fell into the latter category— as the caravan master indeed did, if he wanted a thing badly enough- The blade was beautiful. It was double-edged and a foot long, with the sharpened surfaces describing flat curves instead of being straight tapers like those of the knife in Samlor's hand. The blade sloped toward either edge from the deep keel in the center which gave it stiffness—and all along the flat, the surface danced and shimmered with the polished, acid- etched whorls of the dissimilar metals which comprised it. Because of their multiple hammered refoldings, the join lines between layers of iron and steel were as complex as the sutures of a human skull. After the bar had been forged and ground into a blade, the smith pol- ished it and dipped it into strong acid which he quickly flushed away. The steel resisted the biting fluid, but some of the softer iron was eaten by even the brief touch. The iron became a shadow of incredible delicacy against which the ripples of bright steel stood out like sunlight on moun- tain rapids. Even without its functional purpose, the watermarked blade would have commanded a high price for its appearance. Samlor's eyes stung. He blinked, because in the wavering lamplight the spidery lines of iron against steel looked like writing. The stranger smiled more broadly. "Unc—" began Star with a tug on the caravan master's left sleeve. The iron shadows in the heart of the blade read "He will attack" in Cirdonian script. A moment before they had been only swirls of metal. The stranger's hand slid fully onto the hilt he had been pinching to display. He twisted it in a slashing stroke toward Samlor's eyes. Samlor didn't believe the words written on steel. He didn't even believe he had seen them. But part of his nervous system—"mind" would be too formal a term for reflex at so primitive a level—reacted to the strangeness with explosive activity. The Cirdonian's left hand shot out and crushed the stranger's fingers against the grip of his weapon, easily turning the stroke into a harmless upward sweep- The metal that Samlor touched—the copper buttcap and INHERITOR 87 the tang to which scales of dark wood were pinned to complete the hilt— were cooler than air temperature despite having been carried beneath the stranger's cape. Samlor's right hand slammed his own dagger up and through the stranger's ribcage till the crosshilt stopped at the breastbone. The cara- van master could have disarmed his opponent without putting a foot of steel through his chest, but reflex didn't know that and instinct didn't care. The stranger—the dead man, now, with steel from his diaphragm to the back of his throat—lifted at the short, powerful blow. His head snapped back—his mouth was still smiling—and hammered the hoop which suspended the lamps. They sloshed and went out as the heavy oil doused their wicks. "Star, keep behind—" Samlor ordered as the light dimmed and his right hand jerked down to clear his weapon from the torso in which he had just imbedded it. The stranger flopped forward loosely, but the blade remained stuck. Somebody's hurled beer mug smashed the lantern behind the bar. The Vulgar Unicorn was as dark as the bowels of hell. Samlor ducked and hunched back against the bar while he tugged at his knife hilt with enough strength to have forced a camel to its knees. There was a grunt and an oak-topped table crashed over. Somebody screamed as if he were being opened from groin to gullet—as may have been the case. Darkness in a place like this was both an opportunity and a source of panic. Either could lead to slaughter. Samlor's dagger wouldn't come free. He hadn't felt it grate bone as it went in, and it didn't feel now as if the top were caught on ribs or the stranger's vertebrae. The blade didn't flex at all, the way it should have done if it were held at one point. It was more as if Samlor had thrust the steel into fresh concrete and were coming back a day later in a vain attempt to withdraw it. One advantage to winning a knife fight is that you have the choice of your opponent's weapon if something's happened to yours. The Cirdoni- an's left hand snatched the hilt from the unresisting fingers of the man he had just killed, while his right arm swept behind him to gather up his niece. A thrown weapon plucked his sleeve much the way the child had done a moment before. The point was too blunt to stick in the bar panel against which it crashed like a crossbow bolt. Star wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere within the sweep of Samlor's arm, and there was no response when he desperately called the child's name. 88 AFTERMATH Steel hit steel across the room with a clang and a shower of angry orange sparks. Someone outside the tavern called a warning, but there was already a murderous scuffle blocking the only door to the street. That left the door to the alley on the opposite side of the tavern; stairs to the upper floor—which Samlor couldn't locate in the dark and which were probably worth his life to attempt anyway; and a third option which was faster and safer than the other two, though it was neither fast nor safe on any sane scale. Samlor gripped the body of his victim beneath both armpits and rushed forward, using the corpse as a shield and a battering ram. His niece might still be inside the Vulgar Unicorn, but he couldn't find her in the darkness if she didn't—or couldn't—answer his call. Star was a level-headed girl who might have screamed but wouldn't have panicked to silence when Samlor shouted for her. He was much more concerned that she had bolted for the door the instant the lights went out, and that she was now in the arms of someone with a good idea of the price a virgin of her age would fetch in this hellhole- Somebody brushed Samlor from the side—backed into him—and caromed off, wailing in terror. Samlor did not cut with his new dagger at the contact because Star could still be within reach of his blade . . . He was willing to be stabbed himself to avoid making that sort of mistake. Samlor stumbled on an outstretched limb which gave but did not twitch beneath his boot. Then the corpse hit the screen to the right of the door and the Cirdonian used all the strength of his back and shoulders to smash the wickerwork out into the street. The screen was dry with age, and many of the individuals withies were already splitting away from the tiny trenails that pinned them to the frame. The wicker still retained a springy strength greater than that of thin board shutters, and Samlor felt a hint of infuriating backthrust against his push. The frame snapped away from the sash, letting the corpse carry the collapsing wickerwork ahead of it into the street. There was enough haze to hide the stars and silver moon, but the sky glow was enough to fill the window sash after the lattice had been torn away. Samlor dived over the sill, keeping his body as low as possible. He could have boosted himself with his empty right hand so that he landed feet first instead of slamming the street with his shoulder . . . But if he had done that, the knife that flicked through the air above his rolling body would instead have punched between his shoulder blades. INHERITOR 89 Some brawlers, like sharks in a feeding frenzy, don't need a reason to kill; only a target. "Star!" the caravan master bellowed as he hit, the shock of impact turning the word into more of a gasp than he had expected. His cloak and shoulder muscles had to break the fall, because his left hand, the downside hand, held the long knife that could be the margin of survival in the next instants. The door of the tavern beside Samlor was blocked by two men, the larger holding the smaller and stabbing with mindless repetition. The only sound the victim made now was the squelch of his flesh parting before the steel. A watchman had stepped from a door down the street. The lantern he raised did not illuminate figures, but its light wavered from metal in the hands of half a dozen men scurrying toward the altercation. Samlor had heard that there were local militias raised from every few blocks of the Old City. They differed from street gangs in their expressed determination to keep order and protect their enclaves—but that didn't mean it would be healthy for an outsider to fall into their hands after starting a brawl on their turf. Militiamen rarely saw the need for a trial ; when there was already a rope or a sword handy. ;„ The squad marching toward the noise from the other direction was .^ paid to enforce the law, but the priorities of the men comprising the unit J? tended to be more personal- They were regular army, and the quicker H 'they silenced the trouble, the quicker they could get the fuck back to the H patrol station where they didn't have to worry about showers of bricks € and roofing tiles. I One of the soldiers carried a lantern on a pole. The glazing was pro- | tected by wire mesh, and similar metal curtains depended stiffly from the I'brims of the squad's dented helmets. They carried pole arms, halberds, "|and short pikes, and they shuffled forward with such noisy deliberation jthat it was obvious they hoped the problem would go away without any ""Wed for them to deal with it. Samlor was wilting enough to do that. The problem was how. Star wasn't in the street and wasn't answering him. He'd find her if he ad to wash Sanctuary away in the blood of its denizens, but first he had 3 get clear of this mess into which Fate seemed to have dropped him tirough no fault of his own. Why had that clumsy, suicidal stranger attacked him? Why had the silow even accosted him? But first, survival. Samlor switched the dagger to his right, master hand, and dodged into *° alley nearest him. 90 AFTERMATH The passageway was scarcely the width of his shoulders, but a door— strapped and studded with metal—gave onto it from the building on the other side. The Cirdonian slapped the panel as he dodged past it. Had it opened, he would have dived in and dealt with those inside in whatever fashion seemed advisable. But he didn't expect that; and, as he expected, the door was as solid as the stone to either side of it, The alley jogged, though Samlor didn't recall an angle from inside the Vulgar Unicorn's taproom. He slid past the facet of masonry, into an instant of pitch darkness before someone within the tavern reignited a lamp. There were two slit windows serving this side of the taproom. The grating still covered one, but the light silhouetted the crisp rectangle of the other from which the wickerwork had been torn since the caravan master last saw it inside- Even so, the opening was too narrow to pass an adult. Samlor's mouth opened to call, but the child in the midst of four men was already screaming, "Uncle Samlor\" There were three of them between him and Star, packed into the pas- sageway so that the child's dust-whitened garments were only a shimmer past their legs. They were the punks from the table by the door. Beyond them was a fourth man, tall and hooded, closing Star's escape route. Light in the passageway was only the ghost filtering through the tavern windows and reflected from the filth-blackened wall opposite, but it was enough for Samlor's business. He drew the push dagger from its sheath under the back of his collar and held it so that its narrow point jutted out between the fourth and middle fingers of his left hand. Before the caravan master could lunge into action, the hooded man stepped past the cringing Star and held his staff vertically to confront the trio of toughs. Either the hood was flapping loose or something tiny capered on the fellow's shoulder. "What are you doing with this child?" he demanded in a clear voice. "Begone!" "Hey," said the nearest thug, doubtful enough to step back and jostle a companion. The staff glowed pale blue, a hazy color which seemed to hang in the air as the object trembled. The face beneath the hood was set with deter- mination which controlled but did not eliminate the underlying fear. The staff shook because the man holding it was terrified. Reasonably enough. Samlor paused. If the toughs did turn away in fear of what confronted INHERITOR 91 them, he didn't want to be launched into an attack intended for their backs. He didn't know what was going on. Sometimes you had to act anyway —but just now, Star was out of immediate danger, so there was no point in going off half-cocked. Something—a man, there was no damned doubt about it, but he was only a hand span tall—stood on the right shoulder of the man with the glowing staff. The little fellow hopped up and down, then piped, "Do not be afraid to do that in which you are right!" A thug swore and swung his weapon at the staff. Instead of blades or ordinary clubs, this trio of street toughs carried weighted chains which Samlor had mistaken in the tavern for items of armor or adornment when they were coiled through an epaulette loop on each youth's shoulder. Each chain was about a yard long, made up of fine links which slipped over one another like drops of water. They were polished glass-smooth and then plated for looks—silver for two of the thugs, gold for the third who now swung his weapon in a glittering arc. Both ends of the chain were weighted by lead knobs the size of large walnuts, armed with steel spikes. The knobs were heavy enough to stun or kill but still so light that they could be directed handily and with blinding speed. A skilled man in the right situation could pulp an oppos- ing knife artist, and he could do so with the sort of flashy display which on the street counted for more than success. It was the wrong weapon for an alleyway which even at its widest point was straighter than the span of the chain fully extended, but the hooded man seemed to have no idea of how to defend himself. The weighted end of the chain wrapped itself tight against the staff—it clacked like wood, despite the glow which suggested it was of some eerie material—and the tough jerked it toward him. The hopping manikin disappeared with a high-pitched shriek of terror. The hooded man staggered forward, managing to keep a hold on his staff only by lurching toward the punk whose weapon had snatched it. The blue glow was snuffed out as if the gold-plated chain had strangled the life from the wood. The hooded man was a magician, had to be with his staff and capering manikin. Samlor—and probably the street toughs as well, though psy- chotic pride ruled the actions of their leader—expected magical retribu- tion for the attack. A thunderbolt might shatter them, or icy needles from nowhere might lace their bodies into bloody sieves. Nothing happened except that the leading thug gripped his opponent by the throat and shouted, "Finish 'im, dungbrains!" to his fellows as the victim struggled to free his chain-wrapped staff. 92 AFTERMATH The caravan master waded in to do the job that magic wouldn't take care of after all. One of the three youths hung a half step behind his fellows. Samlor punched the base of his skull left-handed. The steel cap concealed be- neath the bright bandanna rapped the knuckle of the Cirdonian's index finger, but the bodkin point of Samlor's push dagger plunged in to its full length. The youth turned and cried out, pulling clear of the two-inch blade that left a trickle of gore crawling toward the collar of his studded vest. He'd been spinning his chain between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, waiting for an opening to slap the weight into the hooded man. One of the balls gouged Samlor's thigh, but that was accident rather than deliberate counterattack. The youth dropped his weapon and stumbled off down the alleyway, kicked in passing by the man still struggling for his staff- Star flattened herself against the wall to let him go. Her eyes and the white swirl in her hair were pools of reflected light as she stared at her uncle. Samlor cut at the neck of the next thug with the watermarked dagger while drops of blood still winked in the air as they flew from the neck of his first target. The hilt of the unfamiliar weapon was slimmer in his hand than the knife he'd left in the corpse, but the blade's relative point- heaviness gave heft to the slashing blow. The youth got his left arm up in time to block the edge with his forearm while his leader sprayed curses and tried to clear his chain from the staff which now held it rather than the reverse. There wasn't enough hilt for Samlor's hands. The shock threatened to jar the knife away from him as the blade sank deep into the leading armbone and cracked it through as the Cirdonian twisted. The youth squealed in hopeless panic, but luck or practice spun one end of his weighted chain in a loop around the weapon that had crippled him. Samlor punched the tough in the chest lefMianded, then jerked down on the butt of his coffin-hiked dagger. The youth's leather vest was sewn with flat metal washers; the narrow point in Samlor's left hand scratched across the face of one before it sank deep enough into unprotected flesh to prick a lung. Whether or not the metal in the dagger blade had spelled Samlor a warning, it served well enough for a fighting knife. At the Cirdonian's swift tug, the edges sawed through the silvered chain and freed them- selves. The severed knob spun to the muck on the alley's cobblestones with its bit of attached chain twitching like a lizard's tail. The thug lost his footing and fell backward. He should have tangled himself with his leader, but the youth with the gilded chain danced clear. INHERITOR 93 On his toes, buttocks flattening against the tavern wall as his fellow sprawled beneath him, he whirled a spiked knob at Samlor in a down- ward arc that split the difference between vertical and horizontal. The stranger's hood had flopped back and his cape was twisted so that its broach closure was at his left shoulder instead of his throat. When the street tough dropped him to deal with Samlor, the man raised a hand and began to stutter words in a language the caravan master did not know. As the spike chain spun at Samlor's skull in a curve as dangerous as a sword stroke, the stranger stopped talking and prodded the youth be- tween the shoulders with his staff- Samlor dodged back to avoid the spikes, forgetting the bulge in the wall behind that rocked him to a halt. The knob sparked across the stone and tore the Cirdonian's left ear as the youth tried to recover from the push that sent him off balance. He didn't get the chance, The youth wore a necklace strung with the protective charms of at least a dozen faiths, and the front of his vest was strengthened with gilt and silvered studs. None of that helped him when Samlor stabbed up- ward from the groin level. While the punk thrashed like a gigged frog on the twelve-inch blade, the caravan master punched him repeatedly with the push dagger, aiming at the base of the jaw just below the bandanna and the steel cap it covered. The youth collapsed. His eyes were open and his lungs were still work- ing well enough to form bubbles in the blood that drooled from the comer of his mouth. A mixture of body fluids and digestive products followed the blade of the long knife as Samlor withdrew it. Their foetor was briefly noticeable even in this alley. He was probably fourteen years old or so. He looked younger, but bad diet pinched and stunted the faces of those bom here into permanent childhood, "Now the others," chirped a little voice. "Do not kill a snake and leave its tail!" The caravan master was on his knees. He did not recall closing his eyes, but he opened them now. The man with the staff was on his feet again and straightening his disordered cape. The manikin was back on his shoulder, strutting proudly with hands on hips. "You," said Samlor very distinctly. "Shit it in or you'll join 'em." The little figure yelped and disappeared again. Samlor, Star, and the stranger were alone with the dying youth. The other two toughs had disappeared down the alley, and no one else seemed to have entered the passage behind the caravan master. There were voices 94 AFTERMATH from within the taproom, deep and hectoring, but Samlor didn't care enough to try to understand the words. His niece, shivering also, minced over to him without looking down and put her arms around Samlor's shoulder. "I'm sorry you hurt your ear, uncle," she said in a voice that trembled with the child's attempts to control it. "I shouldn't have—" She hugged him harder. "But I thought I could climb up from the bench when it was dark and I didn 't know where you were—" Her words tumbled out like flotsam in the current of the sobs wracking her little body. "—and the, those men came and I couldn't do anything!" "You did fine, darling," the Cirdonian muttered. He encircled the child with his left arm, careful that the point of his push dagger was turned outward. He couldn't put it away until he cleaned it, the way his right hand was wiping the watered steel of the longer knife on the pantaloons of the boy whose breathing had ceased in a pair of great shudders. "But you've gotta listen to me, or really bad things could happen." The blade of the long dagger showed a nick midway up one edge, but it had come through the struggle at least as well as any other knife was likely to have done. Samlor tried to sheathe it and found the new blade was a trifle too broad near the tip to fit the scabbard meant for the knife it replaced. He slid it beneath his belt instead; wiped the push dagger; and rose with that miniature weapon in his right hand while his left arm guided Star behind him again. "Who would you be, my friend?" Samlor asked the man who was fingering his staff now that his cape was rearranged. "My name is Khamwas," the fellow said in a cultured voice that tried to be calm. The peak of his hood must have added several inches to his height, because he was clearly shorter than the caravan master as well as much more slightly built. "I'm a stranger here in your city." The manikin silently reappeared on Khamwas's shoulder. The tiny features were unreadable in the dim light, but the figure's pose was appre- hensive. "Did you have a friend in that tavern?" asked the caravan master softly. When his right thumb turned to indicate the wall of the Vulgar Unicorn, the point of the push dagger winked knowingly toward Khamwas's eyes. There was an ethnic if not familial resemblance be- tween this man and the one who had died in the Vulgar Unicorn. "I don't know anyone in this city," Khamwas said with cautious dig- nity. "I'm a scholar from a far country, and I've come to ask a favor here from a man named Setios." INHERITOR 95 "Uncle, that's—" blurted Star, catching herself before Samlor's free hand could waggle a warning. "A bird who flies to the nest of another," chirped the manikin senten- tiously, "will lose a feather." "What in hell is that?" asked the caravan master deliberately, pointing at the manikin with his right index finger. The bodkin-bladed push dag- ger paralleled the gesturing finger as if by chance. The manikin eeped and cowered. Khamwas reached across to his right shoulder with his cupped right hand, as if to shield and stroke the little creature simultaneously. "He does no harm, sir," the self-styled scholar replied calmly. "I— when I was younger, you understand—prayed to certain powers for wis- dom. They sent me this little fellow instead. His name is Tjainufi." The manikin stared balefully at Khamwas, but his own arm reached out to pat the hand protecting him. "A fool who wants to go with a wise man," he said, "is a goose who wants to go with the slaughter knife." Samlor blinked. He was confused, but that probably didn't matter, not compared to a dozen other things. "You know my name, then?" he said, harshly again, sure that Khamwas had to have some connection with the stranger in the tavern. A sorcerer who knew your name had the first knot in a rope of power to bind you . . . "Sir, I know no one in your city," Khamwas repeated, drawing himself up and planting the staff firmly before him with his hands linked on it. "I have a daughter the age of your niece, so I—tried, I should say, to intervene when she seemed to be in difficulties." He paused. For an instant his staff flowed again. The grain of the wood made ripples in the phosphorescence, and a haze of light wrapped Khamwas's hands like a real fog. Star reached past her uncle and touched the staff. The glow flicked out as Khamwas started, but a tinge of blue clung to the child's fingers as she withdrew them. Samlor did not swear, because words had power—especially at times like these. His left hand caressed his niece's hair, offering human contact when he could not be sure what help, if any, the child required. If Khamwas's toying had done any harm, he would be fed his liver on the point of a knife. Star giggled while both men watched her with fear born of uncertainty. She opened her fingers slowly and the glow between their tips grew and paled like the sheen of an expanding soap bubble. Then it popped as if it had never been. Khamwas let out his breath abruptly. "Sir," he said to the caravan master, "I didn't realize. Forgive me for intruding in your affairs." 96 AFTERMATH Tjainufi, who had disappeared when Star lifted light from the staff, now waggled an arm at Khamwas and said, "Do not say, *I am learned.' Set yourself to become wise." Khamwas would have stepped by and continued up the alley, but Samlor restrained him with a gesture that would have become contact if the scholar had not halted, "You saved Star from a bad time before I got here," he said. "And likely you saved me, besides distracting the little bastards. My name's Samlor hil Samt." He sheathed the little dagger behind his collar. "You and I need to talk." "All right. Master Samlor," agreed the other man, though the way his lips pursed showed that the suggestion was not one he would have made himself. He gestured up the passageway, the direction from which the Cirdonian had come, and added, 'There are more suitable places to discuss matters than here, I'm certain." "No," said Samlor flatly, "there's not." It wasn't worth his time to explain that the direction in which Khamwas was headed would be a no-go area for at least the next hour. The passageway was narrow enough to be defended by one man, and both flanks were protected by masonry that would require siege equip- ment to breach. If their luck were really out, they could be attacked from both directions simultaneously, but that risk was better than being trapped in a cul-de-sac with no bolthole. Given the nature of Sanctuary, this was probably the safest place within a league in any direction. "What do you know about Setios?" the caravan master demanded, no more threatening than was implicit in the fact that he had already dem- onstrated his willingness and ability to kill, Star was squatting, her skirts lifted and wrapped around her thighs to keep the hem from lying in the muck. A tiny glow spun within the globe of her hands as she cooed. Its color was more nearly yellow than the blue which had washed Khamwas's staff. The glow was reflected faintly by the eyes of the dead youth. Khamwas's face worked in something between a grimace and a moue of embarrassment as he watched the child. "Ah," he said to Samlor. "That is, ah—are you . . . ?" The caravan master shook his head, glad to find that the question amused him rather than arousing any of the other possible emotions. "On a good day," he said, "I might be able to recite a spell without stumbling over the syllables—if somebody wrote 'em out for me really careful." That was an exaggeration, though not a great one. "My sister, though," he added, embarrassed himself for reasons the other man should not be able to fathom, "that was more her line." INHERITOR 97 To the extent that anything besides sex was Samlane's line. "I see," said Khamwas, and he continued to glance down at the child even as he returned to the earlier question. "I don't know Setios at all," he explained, "but I know—I've been told by, well—" He shrugged. Samlor nodded grimly; but if this fellow called himself scholar rather than wizard, he at least recognized that the latter was a term of reproach to decent men. "Serve your god, that he may guard you," said Tjainufi, stroking his master's—could Khamwas be called that?—right ear. "He has," Khamwas went on after the awkward pause, "a stele from my own land, from Napata—" "Of course," Samlor interrupted, placing the stranger at last. "The Land of the River." "The river," Khamwas agreed with a nod of approval, "and of the desert. And in the desert, many monuments of former times"—he paused again, gave a gentle smile—"greater times for my people, some would say, though I myself am content." "You want to ... retrieve," said Samlor, avoiding the question of means, "a monument that this Setios has. Is he a magician?" "I don't know," said Khamwas with another shrug. "And I don't need the stele, only a chance to look at it. And, ah, Samlor—?" The caravan master nodded curtly to indicate that he would not take offense at what he assumed would be a tense question. "I will pay him well for the look," the Napatan said. "It's of no value to him—not for the purpose I intend it—without other information. It will give me the location of a particular tomb, which is significant to me for other reasons." The light in Star's hands was growing brighter, throwing the men's shadows onto the wall of the alley. Khamwas's face looked demonically inhuman because it was illuminated from below. Samlor touched his niece's head. "Not so much, dearest," he mur- mured. "We don't want anybody noticing us here if we can help it." "But—" Star began shrilly. She looked up and met her uncle's eyes. The light shrank to the size of a large pearl, too dim to show anything but itself. "She didn't know how to do that before," said Samlor, as much an explanation to himself as one directed toward the other man. "She picks things up." "I see," said Khamwas, and maybe he did. "Well." He shook himself, to settle his cape and to settle himself in his resolve. "Well, Master Samtor," the Napatan continued, "I must be on." He nodded past Samlor toward the head of the alley. 98 AFTERMATH "Not that way," said the caravan master wryly, though he did not move again to block the other man. "Yes, it is," Khamwas replied with a touch of astringence. He stiffened to his full height. The manikin on his shoulder mimicked the posture, perhaps in irony. 'The direction of Setios's house is precisely"—he ex- tended his arm at an angle toward Samlor; hesitated with his eyes turned inward; and corrected the line a little further to the right—"this way. And this passage is the nearest route to the way I need to follow." "Do not do a thing you have not first considered carefully," Tjainufi suddenly warned. The caravan master began to chuckle. He clapped a hand in a friendly fashion on Khamwas's left shoulder. "Nearest route to having your head stuck on a pole, I'd judge," he said. The Napatan felt as fine-boned as he looked, but there was a decent layer of muscle between the skeleton and the soft fabric of his cape. "Look," Samlor continued, "d'ye mean to tell me you don't know where in the city Setios lives, you're just walking through the place in the straightest line your . . . friends, I suppose, tell you is the way to Se- tios? Are these the same friends who gave you wisdom?" The caravan master nodded toward Tjainufi. "I think that's my affair. Master Samlor," said Khamwas. He strode forward, gripping his staff vertically before him. His knuckles were white. The manikin said, " 'What he does insults me,' says the fool when a wise man instructs him." Khamwas halted. Samlor looked at the little figure with a frown of new surmise. There was no bad advice—only advice that was wrong for a given set of circumstances. And, just possibly, Tjainufi's advice was more appropriate than the Cirdonian had guessed. "All I meant, friend," Samlor said, touching and then removing his hand from the other man's shoulder, "was that maybe there aren't any good districts in Sanctuary—but your straight line's sure as death taking you through the middle of the worst of what there is." Star had stood up when Khamwas started to walk away. The light which now clung to her left palm had put out tendrils and was fluctuat- ing through a series of pastels paler than the colors of a noontime rain- bow. Impulsively, she hugged the Napatan's leg and said, "Isn't it pretty? Oh, thank you!" "It's only a—little thing," Khamwas explained apologetically to the child's uncle. "It—I don't know how she learned it from seeing what I did." Samlor noticed that the staff glowed only when Khamwas could con- centrate on it, but that the phosphorescence in Star's hand continued its INHERITOR 99 complex evolutions of shape and color even while his niece was hugging and smiling brightly at the other man. The light glinted on the bare blade of his new dagger, harder in reflec- tion than the source hanging in the air seemed. The caravan master blinked, touched his tunic over the silver medal- lion of the goddess Heqt on his breast, and only then slid the weapon back from its temporary resting place in his belt. The twisting phospho- rescence gave the markings a false hint of motion; but they were only swirls of metal, not the script he thought he had again seen. Khamwas watched with controlled apprehension. Deciding that it was better to go on with his proposal than to wonder why Samlor was staring at the knife whose guard still bore dark stains, the Napatan said. "Master Samlor, you understand this city as I do not. And you're clearly able to deal with, ah, with violence, should any be offered. Could I prevail on you to accompany me to the house of Setios? I'll pay you well." "Do not walk the road without a stick in your hand," Tjainufi said approvingly. "We need to find Setios, Uncle Samlor," said the child in a voice rising toward shrill. She released Khamwas and instead tugged insistently on the elbow of her uncle's right sleeve. "Please can we? He's nice." Cold steel cannot flow, twist, parse out words, thought the caravan master. The nick in the edge was bright and real: this was no thing of enchantment, only a dagger with an awkward hilt and a very good blade. Star pulled at Samlor's arm with most of her weight. He did not look down at her, nor did his hand drop. That arm had dragged a donkey back up to the trail from which it had stumbled into a gulley a hundred feet deep. "Please," said the child. "Friend Samlor?" said the Napatan doubtfully. The knife was only that, a knife, so far as he could see. Go with him, spelled the rippling steel at which Samlor stared. The words faded as the glow in Star's hand shrank to a point and disappeared. "I was ready." said the caravan master slowly, "to find a guide in there." He did not gesture toward the tavern. He was speaking to himself, not to the pair of living humans with him in the alleyway. They stared at Samlor, his niece, and the stranger, as they would have stared at a pet lion who suddenly began to act oddly. "So I guess," Samlor continued, "we'll find Setios together. After all" —he tapped the blade of the coflin-hilted dagger with a fingernail; the metal gave off a musical ping—"we're all four agreed, aren't we?" 100 AFTERMATH Star leaned toward her uncle and hugged his powerful thigh, but she would not meet his eyes again or look at the knife in his hand. Khamwas nodded cautiously. "We'll circle out of the Maze, then," said Samlor matter-of-factly. "Come on." The way down the alley meant stepping over the body of the youth he had just killed. This was Sanctuary. It wouldn't be the last corpse they saw. The body sprawled just inside the alley would have passed for a corpse if you didn't listen carefully—or didn't recognize the ragged susurrus of a man breathing while his face lay against slimy cobblestones. "Mind this," said Samlor, touching first Star, then Khamwas, so that they would notice his gesture toward the obstacle. Human eyes could adapt to scant illumination, but at this end of the alley the dying man's breath was all that made it possible to locate him. The manikin on Khamwas's shoulder must have been able to sense the situation, because he said, "There is no one who does not die." Tjainufi's voice was as high as a bird's; but, also like a bird's, it had considerable volume behind it. The Napatan "scholar" reached toward his shoulder with his free hand, a gesture mingled of affection and warning. "Tjainufi," he mut- tered, "not now - . ." Samlor doubted that Khamwas had any more control over the mani- kin than a camel driver did over a pet mouse which lived in a fold of his cloak. Or, for that matter, than Samlor himself had over his niece, who was bright enough to understand any instructions he gave her—but whose response was as likely to be willful as that of any other seven-year- old. Now, for instance, a ball of phosphorescence bloomed in the cup of the child's hand, lighting her way past the dying man despite the caravan master's warning that illumination—magical or otherwise—would be more risk to them than benefit, at least until they got out of the Maze. Star put a foot down daintily, just short of the victim's outflung arm, then skipped by in a motion that by its incongruity made the scene all the more horrible. The ball of light she had formed drifted behind her for a moment. Its core shrank and brightened—from will-o'-the-wisp to firefly intensity—while the whirling periphery formed tendrils like the whorl of silver-white hair on Star's head. The child turned back, saw the set expression on Samlor's face, and jerked away as if he had slapped her physically. The spin of light blanked as if it had never been. INHERITOR 101 "Is he ... ?" asked Khamwas as he stepped over his mind's image of where the body lay. "One of those we ... met a moment ago?" "The gang who came after us with chains, sure," said the caravan master as he followed with a long stride. The passageway was wide enough for him to spread his arms without quite touching the walls to either side; in the Maze, that made it a street. It held only the normal sounds of feral animals going about their business and, from behind shut- ters, bestial humans. "They're all dead, the two who ran off as sure as the one who didn't. Turn left here." "The House of Setios is more to the—" "Turn fucking left," Samlor whispered in a voice like stones rubbing. "Do not be a hindrance, lest you be cursed," said Tjainufi on the Napatan's shoulder. The manikin bowed toward Samlor, but the caravan master was too angry to approve of anything. Mostly he was angry at himself, because he'd killed often enough dur- ing his life to know that he really didn't like killing. Especially not kids, even punk kids who'd have caved his skull in with weighted chains and raped Star until they sold her to a brothel for the" price of a skin of wine ... Sanctuary might be incrementally better off without that particular trio; but Samlor hil Samt wasn't Justice, wasn't responsible to his god for the cleansing of this hellhole. They got out of the Maze with no problem worse than a pair of thugs —who fled in terror as Khamwas's staff sent a manlike phantasm of light staggering down the street toward them. Broader pavements made walk- ing easier, and many housefronts were lighted by lanterns in barred niches. The lanterns weren't an act of charity toward travelers. They were intended to drive lurking footpads into somebody else's doorway. Khamwas paused, then directed them up one arm of a five-way inter- section, past a patrol station. The gate to the internal courtyard was lighted by flaring sconces, and there was a squad on guard outside. An officer took a step into the street as if to halt the trio, but he changed his mind after a pause. They were in the neighborhood of the palace now, a better section of the city. The residents here stole large sums with parchment and whis- pered words instead of cutting wayfarers' throats for a few coins. And the residents expected protection from their lesser brethren in crime. The troops here would check a pair of men, detain them if they had no satisfactory account of their business; kill them if any resistance were offered. 102 AFTERMATH But two men carrying a young child were unlikely burglars- Most probably, they were part of the service industry catering to Sanctuary's wealthy and powerful . . . and the rich did not care to have their night- time sports delayed by uniformed officiousness. Samlor had no need for the bribe—or the knife—he had ready. "We're getting close, I think," Khamwas remarked. He lifted his head as if to sniff the air which even here would have been improved by a cloudburst to ram effluvium from the street down into the harbor. Samlor grimaced and looked around him. He wanted to know how Khamwas found his directions ... but he didn't want to ask; and any- way, he wouldn't understand if the scholar/magician took the time to explain. Worse, Star likely would understand. "I wonder what Setios is keeping for her," the caravan master whis- pered, so softly that the child could not hear even though Samlor's lips brushed her fine hair as he spoke. "Is it going to rain?" Star asked sleepily from the cradle of Samlor's arm. The caravan master glanced at the sky. There were stars, but a scud of high clouds blocked and cleared streaks across them at rapid intervals. There was an edge in the air which might well be harbinger of a storm poised to sweep from the hills to the west of town and wash the air at least briefly clean. "Perhaps, dearest," the Cirdonian said. "But we'll be all right." They'd be under cover, he hoped; or, better yet, back in a bolted cham- ber of the caravansary on the White Foal River before the storm broke. Khamwas began to mutter something with his fingers interlaced on the top of his staff. Star shook herself into supple alertness and hopped off her uncle's supporting arm. She did not touch the Napatan, but she watched his face closely as he mouthed words in a language the caravan master did not recognize. Left to his own devices—unwilling to consider what his niece was teaching herself now, and barely unwilling to order her to turn away— Samlor surveyed the houses in their immediate neighborhood. It was an old section of the city, but wealthy and fashionable enough that there had been considerable rebuilding to modify the original Ilsigi character. Directly across from Samlor's vantage place, the front of a house had been demolished and was being replaced by a two-story por- tico with columns of colored marble. A lamp burned brightly on a shack amid the construction rubble, and a watchman's eyes peered toward the trio from its unglazed window. The other houses were quiet, though all save the one against which INHERITOR 103 Samlor's party sheltered guarded their facades with lamplight. At this hour, business was most likely to be carried on through back entrances or trap doors to tunnels that were older than the Ilsigs . . . and possibly older than humanity. It might be a bad time to meet Setios; but again, it might not. He'd been an associate of Star's mother, which meant at the least that he was used to strange hours and unusual demands. He'd see them now, provide the child with her legacy—if it were here. If it were portable. If Setios were willing to meet the terms of an agree- ment made with a woman now long dead. Samlor swore, damning his sister Samlane to a hell beneath all the hells; and knowing as he recited the words under his breath that any afterlife in which Samlane found herself was certain to be worse than her brother could imagine. "This is the house," said Khamwas with a note of wonder in his voice. He and the child turned to look at the facade of the building against which the caravan master leaned while he surveyed the rest of the neigh- borhood. "Looks pretty quiet," said Samlor. The words were less an understate- ment than a conversational placeholder while the Cirdonian considered what might be a real problem. The building didn't look quiet. It looked abandoned. It was a blank-faced structure. Its second floor was corbeled out a foot or so but there was no real front overhang to match those of the houses to either side. The stone ashlars had been worn smooth by decades or more of sidewalk traffic brushing against them; the mortar binding them could have used tuck pointing, but that was more a matter of aesthetics than structural necessity. The only ground-floor window facing the street was a narrow slit be- side the iron-bound door. There was a grate-protected niche for a lantern on the other side of the door alcove; the stones were blackened by carbon from the flame, but the lamp within was cold and dark. It had not been lighted this night, and perhaps not for weeks past. There was no sign of life through the slit intended to give a guard inside a look at whoever was calling. "Perhaps I'm wrong," said Khamwas uncertainly. "This should be the house of Setios, but I—I can't be sure I'm right." He made as if to bend over his staff again, then straightened and said decisively, "No, I'm sure it must be the house—but perhaps he doesn't live here anymore." The Napatan stepped to the street-level door and raised his staff to rap on the panel. "Ah . . ." said Samlor. 104 AFTERMATH The caravan master held the long dagger he had taken from the man he killed in the Vulgar Unicorn. The weapon belonged in his hand when they prowled through the Maze, but it wasn't normal practice to knock on a stranger's door with steel bare in your hand. On the other hand, this was Sanctuary; and anyway, the new knife didn't fit in the sheath of the one Samlor had left in the corpse. "Go ahead," he said to Khamwas. The Napatan was poised, watching the caravan master and waiting for a suggestion to replace his own intent. Khamwas nodded, Star mirroring his motion as if hypnotized by tired- ness. He rapped twice on the door panel. The sound of wood on wood was sharp and soulless. "Won't be anybody there," said Samlor. His own eyes were drawn to the watermarked blade of the knife. His knife, now; the owner wasn't going to claim it with a foot of steel through his chest. The whorls of blended metals, iron black against polished steel, were only memories in the distant lamplight. There was no way Samlor could see them now, even if they began to spell words as he had watched them do—in defiance of reason—twice before. The caravan master shook himself out of the clouded reverie into which fatigue was easing him. He needed rest as badly as his niece did, and it looked as though there was no way he was going to clear up his business tonight anyway. "Look," he said, irritated because Khamwas still faced the door as if there were a chance it would open. "There's nobody here, and—" Metal clanked as the bar closing the door from inside was withdrawn from its staples. The door leaf opened inward, squealing on bronze pivots set into the lintel and transom instead of hanging from strap hinges. "No one will see you," said the voice of the figure standing in the doorway. Whatever else the doorkeeper might be, it was not human. The creature was shorter than Star. Fur clothed its body and long tail in ashen luster, but the frame beneath was skeletally thin. Its features had the pointed sharpness of a fox's muzzle, and there was no intelligence whatever in its beady eyes. "Wait," said Samlor hil Samt as the doorkeeper began to close the portal again. He set his boot against the iron-strapped lower edge of the door. "Your master holds a trust f-for my niece Star." "No one will see you," the creature repeated. Behind it was another set of door leaves, reinforced like the first, combining to form a closet-sized anteroom which could probably be flooded with anything from boiling water to molten lead. If there were anyone alive in the house to do so. The doorkeeper spoke in a thin, breathy voice, but its chest did not rise and fall. INHERITOR 105 •'It isn't real," Khamwas was saying in a universe in which Samlor was not focused in terrified determination on the unhuman—unalive—door- keeper of this house. "It's a simulacrum like the—" "No one will see you," the doorkeeper repeated without emphasis. It swung the panel shut, thrusting Samlor violently backward even though he tried to brace himself by stiffening his supporting leg behind him. "I will have Star's legacy!" the caravan master shouted as he hurled himself back against the door, slamming into it with the meat of his left shoulder. The panel thumped but did not rebound. The bar crashed into place. "I will!" Samlor cried again, "Depend on it!" His voice echoed, but there was no sound at all from within the house. "It wasn't really present," said Khamwas, touching the other man's shoulder to calm him. "It's there enough for me," said Samlor grimly, massaging his bruised shoulder with the faceted knife hilt. "Might've tried t' stop a landslide for all I could do to keep it from slamming the door." At a venture, he poked his dagger blade through the slit beside the door, in and out quickly like a snake licking the air. Nothing touched the metal, nor was there any other response. "He who shakes the stone," said—warned?—Tjainufi, "will have it fall on his foot." "I mean," said Khamwas hastily to deflect possible wrath from his manikin, "that it's no more than a part of the door. A trick only, without volition or consciousness. It's carrying out the last order it was given, the way a bolt lies in its groove when the master releases it. No one may be present." "If we go in there," said Star distinctly, pointing at the door, "we'll be . . . krrk." The child cocked her head up as if her neck had been wrung. "Like chickens," she added as she relaxed, grinning. Samlor's breath wheezed out. He had thought . . . "Well, Star," said the Napatan scholar, "I might be able to keep the wraith from moving for a time, long enough for us to get past the - . . zone of which it's a part. I might. But I think we'd best not go in by this door until Setios permits us to pass." The two of them smiled knowingly at one another. Samlor restrained his impulse to do something pointlessly violent. He looked at the blade of his knife instead of glaring at his companions and began in a very reasonable tone, "In that case, we'd best get some sleep and—" "Actually," said Khamwas, not so much interrupting as speaking without being aware that Samlor was in the middle of a statement, "nei- 106 AFTERMATH ther of us have business with Setios himself, only with items in his posses- sion. I wonder . . ." "/ want my gift now," said Star, her face set in the slanting lines of temper. Either she tossed her head slightly, or the whorl of white strands in her curly black hair moved on its own. Go IN NOW read the iron letters on the blade at which Samlor stared in anger. There was too little light for the markings to be visible, but he saw them nonetheless. "Heqt take you all to the waters beneath the earth!" shouted the Cir- donian in fury. He slashed the air with his dagger as if to wipe away the message crawling there in the metal. "I'm not a burglar, and coming to this damned city doesn't make me one." "When you are hungry, eat what you despise," said the manikin on Khamwas's shoulder. "When you are full, despise it." "Anyway," said Star, "ifs going to rain. Uncle Samlor." She looked smug at the unanswerable truth other latest argument.The caravan mas- ter began to laugh. Khamwas blinked, as frightened by the apparent humor as he had been by the anger that preceded it. Emotional outbursts by a man as danger- ous as the caravan master were like creakings from the dike holding back flood waters. "Well," the Napatan said cautiously, "I suppose the situation may change for the better by daylight. Though of course neither of us were considering theft. I want to look at a slab of engraved stone, and you simply wish to retrieve your niece's legacy from its caretaker—who seems to be absent." "We don't know what it is." said Star. "My gift." "Ah," said Khamwas, speaking to the girl but with an eye cocked toward her uncle. "That shouldn't be an insurmountable problem. If we're inside"—he nodded toward the door—"and the object is there also, I should be able to locate it for you." "Will you show me how?" Star begged, clasping her hands together in a mixture of pleading and premature delight. "Ah . . ." repeated the Napatan scholar. "1 think that depends on what your uncle says, my dear." "Her uncle says that we're not inside yet," Samlor stated without particular emphasis. "And he'll see about getting there." Without speaking further to his companions, the Cirdonian walked to the comer of the building. INHERITOR 107 Setios's house was two feet away from the building beside it. There were no ground-floor windows in the sidewall either, but the second story was ventilated by barred openings. Samlor stepped through the gap, too narrow to be called an alley anywhere but in the Maze. He ignored his companions, though they followed him gingerly in lieu of any other directions. The vertical bars of the window above him were thumbthick and set with scarcely more room than that between them. Star might have been able to reach through one of the spaces, but the caravan master was quite certain that his own big hands would not fit. "Are there going to be things like that door-monkey waiting by the windows?" Samlor asked the other man quietly. He nodded upward to indicate the opening he had studied. Khamwas shrugged in darkness relieved only by the strip of clouded sky above them. "I would expect human servants if anything," he said. "They're . . . more trustworthy, in many ways. And from what I've gathered, Setios is a collector the way I'm a scholar. Neither of us, you understand, are magicians of real power." He paused and tucked his lip under his front teeth in doubt, then added, "The way your niece here appears to be, Master Samlor." "Yeah," said the caravan master without emotion. His left hand tou- sled Star's hair gently, but he did not look down at the child. "And he collected a demon in a bottle, among other things." Samlor grimaced, then went on, "Let's get out t' the street again. You wait, and I'll go talk to the fellow across the way there." "Ah, Samlor . . . ?" Khamwas said. "Just wait here," the Cirdonian repeated. "I'm going across the street to talk with the watchman there." He nodded toward the guard shack on the construction site opposite. "Yes, of course," Khamwas said with enough disinterest to hint at irritation. "But what I wanted to say was—Setios, you see, may not be avoiding you. There's been a recent upheaval in the structure of, you see, magic. He may have become frightened and fled from that." The Napatan grinned. "He'll have left behind the stele I want to read, surely. Probably his whole collection, if that fear is why he left. And, as for this child's legacy"—he touched Star's cheek affectionately—"if we don't find it here, I'll help you locate it. Because you've helped me. And because I am honored to help someone as talented as your niece." "The plans of gods are one thing," said the manikin on his shoulder. "The thoughts of men are another." "Yeah, well," said the caravan master, then strode across the street with a swaggering assurance which immediately set him apart in a city 108 AFTERMATH where lone men habitually slunk. The watchman edged back from his window so that his eyes no longer reflected light. It took five pieces of Rankan gold and ten minutes cajoling the nervous watchman at the construction site before Samlor returned to his compan- ions with the house jack he had borrowed. "Khamwas," he said gruffly, "come help me with the window." Star was curled in the comer of the door alcove, dozing with the Napatan's cape for a pillow. Khamwas stood in front of her, watching the street as well as the caravan master. He was very slim without the bulk of the outer garment, and his bare chest was no garb for this night. "I, ah," he said, looking down at the child. "I thought it would be good if she got some rest, so - - - She's very like my own daughter, you know." "Wish I had more talent for what she needs," said the caravan master quietly, staring at the child also. "Wish I knew what she needs, what any kid needs. But you do what you can." He grimaced again. "Bring 'er along, will you? I need you at the side to hand me this jack when I'm ready for it"—he fluffed his cloak open to display the tool—"and I don't want her in plain sight on the street, even though it means getting her up again." The sky had closed in above the passage between the two buildings. It was as dark as a narrow cave, and for the time being the air was as motionless as that of a cavern miles below the ground. Samlor found his location by subconscious memory of the six cautious paces which had brought him beneath the window when he could see it. Samlor climbed to the window by bracing his hands and feet against the closely adjacent buildings. That wasn't hard, but he almost fell when he bent to take the jack which Khamwas raised to him. He was tired, and it was affecting him. Already. The window grate might have withstood a battering ram. The screw jack, butted against the stone sash, exerted its pressure sideways across the bars and their frame. The grating crumbled as the Cirdonian inexora- bly levered the jack through it, ignoring what the effort was doing to his fatigued muscles. With the last of his strength, Samlor lurched through the opening he had just torn and sprawled onto the floor of the room beyond. "Praised be Heqt in whom the world lives," murmured Samlor as his senses returned him to the world beyond his own effort and necessities. The marble floor beneath him was cold and slick with water. The glazed INHERITOR 109 windows had not been closed the last time it rained; and that, from idle chatter overheard at the caravansary, had been more than a week ago. Khamwas called from the alley, his words blurred but the worry in them clear. "It's all right," the caravan master said, then realized that he wasn't sure he could understand the croaked words himself. He gripped the window ledge, fragments of the grate chiming around his knees. "It's all right," he repeated, leaning back through the opening by which he had entered. "Just a minute and I'll find"—his hand brushed a tapestry beside the window—"yeah, just a second and I'll have some- thing for you t' climb by." He ripped the hangings down and dangled them from the window for his companions. Samlor no longer cared what damage they did to this place—so long as they got out of it soon. The window was scarcely visible as a rectangle, and the still air smelled of storm. There was a discussion below. Star came up the tapestry, flailing her legs angrily behind her. There was a pout in her voice as she demanded, "What is this old place? I don't like it." Maybe she felt something about the house—and maybe she was an overtired sever-year-old and therefore cranky. There wasn't time to worry about it. The caravan master gripped the child beneath the shoulders with his left arm and lifted her into the room. Star yelped as her head brushed the transom, but she should've had sense enough to duck. "My staff. Master Samlor," said Khamwas. The Cirdonian leaned forward and caught the vague motion that proved to be the end of an ordinary wooden staff when his fingers en- closed it. Behind him, the room lighted vaguely with pastel blue. Star shouldn't have done it without asking; but they needed light, and a child wasn't a responsible adult. Samlor slid the staff behind him with his left hand while supporting the tapestry with his right hand and his full weight to pin the end to the floor. The Napatan scholar mounted gracefully and used Samlor's arm like the bar of a trapeze to swing himself over the lintel. Only then did the caravan master turn to see where they were and what his niece was doing. Star had set swimming through the air a trio of miniature octopuses made of light. A blue one drifted beneath the ceiling frescoed with scenes of anthropomorphic deities; a yellow one prowled beneath the legs of a writing table sumptuous with mother-of-pearl inlays. 110 AFTERMATH The third miniature octopus was of an indigo so pale that it barely showed up against the carven door against which it bobbed feebly. "Where's . . ." Samlor said as he looked narrowly at Khamwas. "You know, your little friend?" Tjainufi reappeared on the Napatan's right shoulder. The manikin moved with the silent suddenness of an image in an angled mirror, now here and now not, as the tilt changes. "The warp does not stray far from the woof," he said in cheerful satisfaction, "Khamwas," the Cirdonian added as he looked around them, "if you can locate what we're after, then get to it. I really don't want t' spend any longer here than I need to." "Look, uncle," Star squealed as she pranced over to the writing desk. "Mommy's box!" Samlor's speed and reflexes were in proper form after his exertions, but his judgment was off. He attempted to spring for the desk before Star got there, and his boots skidded out from under him on the wet marble. Because he'd swept the long dagger from his belt as part of the same unthinking maneuver, he had only his left palm to break his fall. The shock made the back of his hand tingle and the palm bum. Khamwas had retrieved his staff. He stopped muttering to it when the Cirdonian slapped the floor hard enough to make the loose bars roll and jingle among themselves. "Are you . . . ?" he began, offering a hand to the sprawling bigger man. "See, Uncle Samlor?" said the child, returning to the caravan master with an ivory box in her hands. "It's got mommy's mark on it." "No, go on with your business," said Samlor calmly to the Napatan. He felt the prickly warmth of embarrassment painting his skin, but he wouldn't have survived this long if he lashed out in anger every time he'd made a public fool of himself. "Find the stele you're after, and then we'll see what Star's got here." He took the box from the child as quickly as he could without letting it slip from his numbed fingers. Even if it were just what it seemed—a casket of Samlane's big enough to hold a pair of armlets—it could be extremely dangerous. Much of what Samlor's sister had owned, and had known, fell into that category, one way or another. Khamwas's face showed the concern which any sane man would feel under the circumstances, but he resumed his meditation on—or prayers to—his staff. Star's palm-sized creatures of light continued their slow patrol of the room. The caravan master seemed to have broken into a large study. There was a couch to one side of the door and on the other the writing INHERITOR 111 desk with matching chair. The chair lay on its back, as if its last occupant had jumped up hastily. "Open it, uncle'" Star demanded. Khamwas still murmured over his staff, so the caravan master got up with caution born of experience and walked over to the writing desk. A triple-wicked oil lamp hung from a crane attached to the desk top. It promised real illumination when Samlor lit it with the brass fire-piston in his wallet. "There's no oil, Uncle Samlor," said Star with the satisfaction of a child who knows more than an adult. She cupped her hand again and turned it up with a saffron glow in the palm. The creatures of light still drifting about the room dimmed by comparison. "See?" The bowl of the lamp was empty except for a sheen in its center, oil beyond the touch of the wicks. Only one of the three wicks had been lighted at the lamp's last use. When the flame had consumed all the oil, it reduced the twist of cotton to ash. The other wicks were sharply divided into black and white, ready to function if the fuel supply were renewed. Setios had really left in a hurry. "Fine, hold the light were it is, darling," Samlor said to his niece as calmly as if he were asking her to pass the bread at table. The casket wasn't anything which the Cirdonian remembered from his youth, but the family crest—the rampant wyvern of the House of Kodrix—was enameled on the lid. Beneath it was carved in Cirdonian script the motto AN EAGLE DOES NOT SNATCH FLIES. Samlor's parents had never forgiven him for running high-risk, high- profit caravans like a commoner instead of vegetating in noble poverty. But they'd lived well—drunk well, at least—on the flies he snatched for them, and the money Samlor provided had bought his sister a marriage with a Rankan noble. Which couldn't save Samlane from herself, but was the best effort possible for a brother who didn't claim to be a god. The lid did not rise under gentle pressure from his left thumb. There was no visible catch or keyhole, but the little object had to be a box—it didn't weigh enough for a block of solid ivory. Samlor put his dagger down on the desk to free his right hand . . . And read the superscription on the piece of parchment there, a letter barely begun: "To Master Samlor hi! Sami If you are well. it is good. I also am well. I enclose w 112 AFTERMATH The script was Cirdonian, and the final letter trailed off in a sweep of ink across the parchment. Following the curve of that motion, Samlor saw a delicate silver pen on the marble floor a few feet to the side of the desk. Samlor set down the ivory box, and he very deliberately kept the weapon in his hand. From the look of matters, Setios might have been better off if he'd been holding a blade and not a pen a week or so earlier. Instinctively, the caravan master's left arm encircled Star, locating the child while he turned and said, "Khamwas. This is important. I think I've been doing Setios an injustice, thinking he'd ducked out to avoid me." The other man was so still that not even his chest moved with the process of breathing. The absolute stillness was camouflaged for a mo- ment by the fact that the octopuses threw slow, vague shadows as they circled the room- The manikin on Khamwas's shoulder was executing some sort of awkward dance with his legs stiff and his arm akimbo. "Khamwas!" the caravan master repeated sharply. "I think we need to get outta here now." Tjainufi said, "Do not say, 'I will undertake the matter,' if you will not." Almost simultaneously, the Napatan shook himself like a diver surfac- ing after a deep plunge and opened his eyes. He stood, wobbling a little and using the staff for support. His face broadened with a smile of bright relief. "Samlor," he said, obviously ignorant of anything that had happened around him since he dropped into a trance. "I've found it—or at least we need to go down." "We need to—" began the caravan master angrily. Tjainufi was watch- ing him. The manikin's features were too small to have readable expres- sion in this light, but the creature must think that . . . "Look," Samlor resumed, speaking to—at—Tjainufi, "I don't mean I want to get out because we found what / wanted, I mean—" "Oh!" said Star. There was a mild implosion, air rushing to fill a small void. "There's nothing inside." She'd opened the box, Samlor saw as he turned. His emotions had gone flat—they'd only be in the way just now—and his senses gave him frozen images of his surroundings in greater detail than he would be able to imagine when he wasn't geared to kill or run. A narrow plate on the front of the ivory box slid sideways to expose a spring catch. When the child pressed that—the scale of the mechanism was so small that Samlor would have had to work it with a knifepoint— the lid popped up. INHERITOR 113 To display the inner surfaces of the ivory as highly polished as the exterior; and nothing whatever within. Star was looking up at him with a pout of disappointment. She held the box in both hands and the ball of light, detached from her palm, was shrinking in on itself and dimming as its color slipped down through the spectrum. For an instant—for a timeless period, because the vision was unreal and therefore nothing his eyes could have taken in—Samlor saw blue- white light through a gap in the cosmos where the whorl of white hair on Star's head should have been. It was like looking into the heart of the thunderbolt . . . And it wasn't there, in the room or his daughter's face—for Star was that, damn Samlane as she surely was damned—or even as an afterimage on Samlor's retinas when he blinked. So it hadn't really been there, and the caravan master was back in the world where he had promised to help Khamwas find a stele in exchange for help locating Star's legacy. Which it appeared they had yet to do, but he'd fulfill his obligations to the Napatan. He shouldn't have needed a reminder from Tjainufi of that. "Friend Khamwas," Samlor said, "we'll go downstairs if you want that. But"—his left index finger made an arc from the parchment toward the fallen silver pen—"something took Setios away real sudden, and I wouldn't bet it's not still here." Khamwas caught his lower lip between his front teeth. He was wearing his cape again, but the caravan master remembered how frail the Napatan had looked without it. "The man who looks in front of him does not stumble and fall," said the manikin with his usual preternatural clarity of voice. "Samlor," said the Napatan, "I appreciate what you say ... but what I seek is here, and I've made a very long—" "Sure," the caravan master interrupted. "I just mean we be careful, all right? "And you, child," Samlor added in a voice as soft as a cat's claws extending. He knelt so that Star could meet his eyes without looking up. "You don't touch anything, do anything. Do you understand? Because if the only way to keep you safe is to tie you up and carry you like a sack of flour—that's what I'll do." Star nodded, her face scrunched up on the verge of tears. The drifting glows dwindled noticeably. "Everything's going to be fine, dearest," the caravan master said, giv- ing the child an affectionate pat as he rose. It bothered him to have to scare his niece in order to get her to obey— while she remembered—but she scared him every time she did something 114 AFTERMATH innocently dangerous, like opening the ivory box. Better she be fright- ened than that she swing from his arm, trussed like a hog. Because Samlor didn't threaten in bluff. Khamwas said something under his breath. His staff clothed itself in the bluish phosphorescence it held when the caravan master first met him in an alley. With the staff's unshod ferule, the Napatan prodded the study door, lifting the bronze latch. When nothing further happened, he pulled the door open with his free hand and preceded Samlor and Star into the hall beyond. Samlor touched the latch as he stepped past it. Not a particularly sturdy piece—typical for an inside door, when the occupant is more concerned with privacy than protection. But it had been locked, which meant somebody had paused in the hallway to do so with a key after he closed the door. Otherwise, it would have to have been locked from the inside by some- body who wasn't there any more. In the old Ilsigi fashion, a balustraded hallway encircled a reception room which pierced the second floor. There was a solid roof overhead rather than the skylight which would have graced a Rankan dwelling of similar quality. The stairwell to the ground floor was in the corner to the left of the study door. Khamwas's staff, pale enough to be a revenant floating at its own direction, swirled in that direction. "The, ah," Samlor said, trying to look in all directions and unable to see anything more than a few inches beyond the phosphorescent staff. "The doorkeeper. It's not ... ?" "We wouldn't meet it even if we opened the front door ourselves from within," said Khamwas as he stepped briskly down the helical staircase. "It isn't, you see, a thing. It's a set of circumstances which have to fit as precisely as the wards of a lock. "Though it wouldn't," he added a few steps later, "be a good idea for anyone to force the door from the outside. Even if they were a much greater scholar than I. Ah, Setios collected some . . . artifacts . . . that he might more wisely have left behind." The reception room was chilly. Samlor thought it might have some- thing to do with the glass-smooth ornamental pond in the middle of the room. He tested the water with his boot toe and found it, as expected, no more than an inch deep. It would be fed by rainwater piped from the roof gutters. Barely visible in the shadow beneath the coaming were the flat slots from which overflow drained in turn into a cistern. Except for the pond, the big room was antiseptically bare. The walls between top and bottom moldings were painted in vertical pastel waves INHERITOR 115 reminiscent of a kelp forest, and the floor was a geometric pattern in varicolored marble. "Well, which way now?" the caravan master demanded brusquely, his eyes on the doorway to the rear half of the house. Star was shivering despite wrapping her cloak tighter with both hands, and Samlor didn't like the feel of the room a bit either. "Down still," said Khamwas in puzzlement. He rapped the ferule of his staff on the floor, a sharp sound that contained no information useful —at least—to the caravan master. Perhaps it just seemed like the right thing to do. "There'll be a cistern below," said Samlor, gesturing with a dripping boot toe toward the pond. "The access hatch'd be in the kitchen, most likely. Not in this room." He started for a door, ill at ease and angry at himself for that feeling of undirected fear. Part of his mind yammered that the Napatan was a fool who again mistook a direction for a pathway . . . and Samlor had to avoid that, avoid picking excuses to snarl at those closest to him in order to conceal fears he was embarrassed to admit. Star poked a hand between the edges other cloak. She did not look up; but when her finger cocked, a bright spark swam rapidly from it and began coasting the lower wall moldings. "D-dearest," said the caravan master, glancing at the withdrawn, mis- erable-looking face of his niece, then back to the light source. Star said nothing. The droplet of light was white and intense by contrast with the vague glows that both—he had to admit the fact—magicians had created earlier in the evening. It might even have looked bright beside a candle, but Samlor had difficulty remembering anything as normal as candlelight while he stood in this chill, stone room. Pulse and pause; pulse and pause; pulse . . . He'd thought that the creature of light was a minnow, or perhaps no more than a daub of illumination, a cold flame that did not counterfeit life. But it surely did. A squid rather than a fish, too small to see but identifiable from the way it jetted forward with rhythmic contractions of its mantle. The marble floor was so highly polished that it mirrored the creature's passage with nearly perfect fidelity, catching even the wispy shadows between the tightly clasped tentacles of light trailing behind. The colors and patterning of the stone segments created the illusion that the reflec- tion really swam through water. "Star," the caravan master demanded in a restrained voice. "Why are you—" 116 AFTERMATH The reflection blurred into a soft ball of light on a slab of black marble, though the tiny creature jetted above it in crystalline purity. The squid pulsed forward and hung momentarily over a wedge of travertine whose dark bands seemed to enfold the sharp outline. Then source and reflection disappeared as abruptly as they had spurted from the child's gesture. "What?" said Star, shivering fiercely. She scrunched her eyes shut so that her uncle thought she was about to cry. "What happened?" Samlor patted her, blinking both at the sudden return of darkness and his realization of what he had just seen. Star might not know what she had done or why, but the caravan master did. "Khamwas, come over here, will you?" he said, amused at the elation he heard in his voice as he strode to the sidewall where the thing of light had disappeared. "You know, I'd about decided we were going t' have t* give up or come back with a real wrecking crew." "A hundred men are slain through one moment of discouragement," said the manikin on Khamwas's shoulder. "In this town," the caravan master responded sourly, "you can be slain for less reason 'n that." "I, ah," said the Napatan scholar. "What would you like me to do?" "Star, come closer, sweetest," Samlor cajoled when he realized his niece had not followed him. Something was wrong with her, or else she was reacting strongly to the malaise of this house—which affected even the relatively insensitive caravan master. She obeyed his voice with the halting nervousness of a frequently whipped dog. Her hands were hidden again within her cloak. Samlor put his arm around her shoulders, all he could do until they'd left this accursed place, and said to the other man, "Can you make it lighter down here? By the wall?" Khamwas squatted and held his staff parallel with the edge molding. The phosphorescence was scarcely any light at all to eyes which had adapted to the spark from Star's finger, but it was sufficient to distinguish the square of black marble from the pieces of travertine to either side of it in the intaglio flooring. Samlor could not discern a difference in the polish of the black marble from that of the rest, but the way it blurred the light which the others had mirrored proved what would have been uncertain under any other conditions. He tried the stone with the tip of his right little finger; the rest of the hand continued to grip the hilt of his long knife. The block didn't give to light pressure, neither downward nor on either of its horizontal axes, but it didn't seem to be as solid as stone cemented to a firm base ought to be. INHERITOR 117 "Is there something the matter with the floor, here?" asked Khamwas, resting easily on his haunches. Samlor would rather that the Napatan keep an eye out behind them, but perhaps he couldn't do that and also hold the staff where it was useful. The glow was better than nothing. Besides, he doubted that any danger they faced would be as simple as a man creeping upon them from the darkness. "This block doesn't have the same sheen as the others," explained Samlor as he stood up slowly. "It's not on any path, particularly, so maybe it's been sliding or, well, something different to the rest." He stepped gingerly on the block, which was only slightly longer in either dimension than his foot. By shifting his weight from toes to heel and then to the edge of his boot, the caravan master hoped he could induce the marble to pivot on a hidden pin. He was poised to jump clear at the first sign of movement, There was none. Well, then ... if he pressed the block toward the wall— Samlor's hobnails skidded, then bit into the marble epough to grip as he increased the weight on them. The black stone slipped under the molding with the silent grace of mercury flowing. There was a sigh from behind them. The two men jerked around and saw that the ornamental pond was lifting onto one end. The water, which had dampened Samlor's boot a moment before, did not spill though it hung on edge in the air. There was a ladder leading down into the opening the pond had cov- ered. "Collector, you called him," said the caravan master grimly as he watched the reflection in the vertical sheet of water. "A good trick," responded Khamwas, nettled at the hinted contrast of his knowledge against that of the missing Setios. The Napatan stood and began muttering in earnest concentration to his staff. Samlor assumed the incantation must have some direct connec- tion with their task and their safety. When the phosphorescent staff floated out of Khamwas's hands, dip- ping but not quite falling to the ground, the Cirdonian realized that it was merely a trick—a demonstration to prove that Khamwas was no less of a magician than the owner of the house, It was the sort of boyish silliness that got people killed when things were as tense as they were just now. Apparently Tjainufi thought the same thing, because he turned and said acidly into the scholar's ear, "There is a running to which sitting is preferable." 118 AFTERMATH Star's hands wavered briefly from the folds of her cloak; Samlor could not be sure whether or not the child mumbled something as well. Flecks of light shot from her fingers. They grew as they shimmered around the room, gaining definition as they lost intensity—jellyfish of pastel light, and one mauve sea urchin, picking its glowing, transparent way spine by spine across a "bottom" two feet above the marble floor. The staff clattered and lost its phosphorescence as it fell. Samlor snatched it before it came to rest on the stone. He handed it back to his male companion. "Let's take a look, shall we?" he said, nodding to the ladder. "Guess I'll go first." "No, I think I should lead," said Khamwas. "I—" He met the caravan master's eyes. "Master Samlor, I apologize. It'll be safer for me to go first, and I'll spend my efforts on making it safe." The multicolored jellyfish made the reception room look as if it were illuminated through stained glass. The sea urchin trundled its way for- ward to the opening in the middle of the floor, then continued downward at the same staccato pace as if the plane on which its spines rested lay in a universe in which sideways was up. That might be the case. The two men walked to the opening and looked down while Star hugged herself in silence. The room beneath the floor was a cube or something near it, ten feet in each dimension. Mauve light filled the volume surprisingly well, though the simulated urchin did not itself seem bright enough to do so. The floor shone with a sullen lambency. The furnishings were simple. A metal reading stand, high enough for use by a standing man and empty now, waited near the center of the room. To its right stood an elaborate bronze firebox on four clawed legs, a censer rather than a heating device. The flat sides of the box were covered by columns of incised swirls, more likely a script unknown to the caravan master than mere decoration. The top was smooth except for a trio of depressions—an inch, three inches, and six inches in diameter. Aromatics could be placed there to be released by the heat of charcoal burning in the firebox beneath. At each corner of the top was a decorative casting. They were minia- ture beasts of the sort which in larger scale could have modeled the censer's terrible clawed legs. The creatures had catlike heads, the bodies of toads with triangular plates rising along the spine for protection, and the forelegs of birds of prey. Serpent tails curled up behind them, sug- gesting the creatures were intended as handles for the censer; but anyone INHERITOR 119 who attempted to put them to that purpose would have his hands pierced by the hair-thin spikes with which the tails ended. There was no other furniture in the room, but a pentacle several feet in diameter was painted or inlaid on the concrete floor to the reading stand's left. It was empty. The floor and white-stuccoed walls were other- wise unmarked. Khamwas's lips pursed. "Go ahead," said Samlor with a shrug. "Maybe your stone's on the ceiling where we can't see it." "Yes," said the Napatan, though there was doubt rather than hope in his tone. Khamwas thrust his staff as far into the mauve light as it would go while his hand on the tip remained above floor level. Nothing happened, but Samlor was not foo! enough to think it had been a pointless exercise. His companion was doing what he had prom- ised, concentrating his talents—better, his knowledge—on the task at hand. Still holding the staff out in his direction of travel, Khamwas backed awkwardly down the ladder. The ferule banged accidentally on the cen- ser as he turned. It made Khamwas jump back but did not concern Samlor, who saw what was about to happen. But the crash and shattering glass from upstairs spun the caravan master, his teeth bared and his left hand groping for the throwing knife in his boot sheath. "The wind," murmured Star, the first words she had spoken since the three of them left the study upstairs. She wasn't looking at her uncle or at anything in particular. But she was right. A door banged shut, muting a further tinkle of glass. One of the window sashes had not been secured properly. A gust had slammed it fiercely enough to shatter the glass. "Are you all right?"called Khamwas. The question impressed Samlor, for it sounded sincere—and in similar circumstances, he himself would have been worried more about his own situation than that of his companions. "We're going to get drenched when we leave here," the caravan master said. "Leaving'll still feel good. Any luck yourself?" The Napatan grimaced. "The room's empty," he said. "The brazier's as clean as if it was never used. I'm not sure it's here at all." "Do not ask advice of a god and then ignore what he says," snapped Tjainufi, who was rubbing his tiny face on his shoulder like a bird preen- ing. "Step back," said Samlor. "I'm coming down." 120 AFTERMATH He turned to his niece and said, "Star, dearest7 Honey? Will you be all right for a minute9" She nodded, though nothing in her face suggested that she was listen- ing The quicker they found what Khamwas needed, the quicker they— Samlor—could sort out his niece's problem He jumped into the cubical room without touching the ladder Samlor landed in perfect balance, feet spread and his left hand ex- tended slightly farther than the right so that leverage matched the weight of his long dagger Despite Samlor's care, his hobnails skidded and might have let him fall if Khamwas hadn't clutched the Ordonun's shoulder The floor was dusted with sparkly stuff, almost as slick as a coat of oil Jumping might not have been the brightest notion, but the caravan master hadn't liked the idea of doing exactly what an intruder was ex- pected to do The concealed room had an underwater ambiance which wasn't wholly an effect of the glowing sea urchin trundling across an invisible bottom at waist height The mauve light had ripples in it, but neither the furniture nor the two men cast distinct shadows on the walls. "What does your"—Samlor said, making a left-handed gesture to indi- cate either Khamwas's staff or nothing at all—"your fnend say about what you're looking for9" "That I've found it," Khamwas replied, turning his head to view sur- roundings which were no less void on this perusal than on earlier ones. Samlor stamped his foot. Sparkling dust quivered, but the concrete was as solid as the bedrock on which it was probably laid. Then he kicked the nearest wall Stucco blasted away from the hobnails as they raked four short, paral- lel paths and squealed on the stone beneath. "Well, I think we know where t' look," said the Cirdonian in satisfac- tion. The stucco his boot had scraped was covering two distinct blocks of stone—a slab of polished red granite, and another of marble shadowed with faint streaks of gray. Both stones were inscribed, though on the softer marble the markings had been weathered and were further defaced by Samlor's boot He brushed at the stucco with his left hand, flaking away a patch his kick had loosened The writing on the granite slab was Rankan but of a form so old that the doubled consonants and vanant orthography made all but a few words unintelligible to the caravan master "Why, this is wonderful, my friend," said the Napatan with a smile brighter than the mauve glow as he bent over the cleared patch INHERITOR 121 Tjainufi beamed and added, "There is no good deed save a good deed done for one who has need of it." "We're not outta the woods yet," said Samlor with a dour glance at the walls around them If they had to clear all the stucco—or even half, if their luck were average—which it probably wouldn't be—it was going to take a lot longer than the caravan master wanted to spend in this place "No, that's all right," explained the Napatan with the uneasy hint of mindreadmg which he had displayed before. "I'll use a spell of release and the covering will come away at once He must use the ancient writ- ings because they focus the power with which the years have imbued them." Maybe that was what Setios used to do with them, Samlor thought as his companion knelt before his upright staff again, but he'd bet Setios hadn't much use for them or anything else in the world just now. Khamwas was whispering to himself and his gods Samlor looked at him, looked at the dagger—saw that the watered steel blade was only that, only metal, probably all it ever was, except in his mind. "Star?" he called toward the rectangular opening. "You all right, sweetest9" He could barely hear the reply, "All right . . ," but a couple of the pastel jellyfish were drifting over him in placid unconcern. She'd be fine, Star would. If any of them were, she'd be fine. Samlor squatted and squeezed up dust from the floor on the tip of his left index finger It was colorless (save for the mauve light it reflected) and much too finely ground for him to be able to tell the shape of the individual crystals A caravan master has plenty of opportunity to examine decorative stones, jewels and bits of glass cut and stained to look like Jewels in the dim light of a bazaar The dust could be anything, powdered diamond even, but most likely quartz, spread in a smooth layer across all the flat surfaces in the room . . . Except for streaks—shadows, almost—stretching from the reading stand and the legs of the bronze censer. The dust seemed to have been sprayed violently from the direction of the pentacle in which Khamwas was almost standing "K—" Samlor began in sudden surmise. The Napatan had been whispering, but now his voice rose in a cre- scendo Khamwas's eyes lifted also, they were wide open but obviously not fixed on anything in the room. Stucco shattered away on all sides, raining over Khamwas and the caravan master who reached for the ladder with his left hand and swung 122 AFTERMATH his blade at anything which might have slipped behind him as he crouched. Nothing had. The choking flood of sand and lime dust filling the air as the walls cleared themselves made Samlor pause where the attack he feared would only have driven him to swifter motion. The slow tumble of the mauve light source continued, though the mineral-laden air absorbed the illumination. A ball a few feet in diameter glowed in place of the urchin's sharply limned spines and carapace. As dust settled out, the glow spread and paled while the features of the source at its heart slowly regained definition. "Khamwas," said the caravan master. His eyes were slitted and a fold of his cloak covered his mouth and nose, a response made reflexive by years of dry storms whipping across his caravan routes. "Where did Setios keep his demon in a crystal bottle?" "The gods preserve me from such knowledge, friend!" said the Napatan as his eyes swept the upper levels of the walls which could already be viewed with sufficient clarity. He filtered the air through his cape; a desert-dweller himself, Khamwas must have more experience with dust storms than Samlor did. "Believe me, Setios was mad to keep such a thing by him—and you and I would be even madder to carry it off ourselves." "That's not what I mean," the caravan master said. He raised his voice so that it could be heard through the muffling cloth—and because he was at a desperate loss to know what he should do next. He would have climbed out of this place at once, except for his fear of what might follow him to where Star stood shivering. No wonder the child had been terrified into a near coma. She must have known . . . "•Here it is!" cried Khamwas, brushing the reading stand as he swept closer to a wall. "Here it is!" he repeated, then sneezed. The walls of the sunken room were formed entirely of inscribed stones, but the pieces had little commonality beyond that. Some were squared columns, set with one face flush and the other three hidden even now that the stucco had fallen away. A few bore symbols which were not writing at all. One of them was a small block of peridotite. polished smooth before a single diagonal was cut across its coarse crystals. The block had marked the victim's place in a temple ofDyareela. Samlor could not imagine anyone removing it from its original location—or being willing to have it close to him thereafter. The Napatan was brushing his left palm across the face of a slab of gray granite, cleaning it of dust that had settled there after the spell of release. The stele was about three feet high and half that across. Figures INHERITOR 123 —presumably gods—filled the upper portion, and there were about twenty vertical lines of script beneath them. "—to the blessings of Harsaphes," Khamwas said, his index finger pausing midway down one of the later columns. "Harsaphes. not Somptu as I'd always assumed, and the ruins of the temple of Har—" "Khamwas, listen to me!" Samlor shouted. He gripped the scholar with his left hand, though that meant dropping his cloak while there was still dust in the air. "You say something happened to magic a little bit ago. Would that have broken the crystal that held Setios's demon?" "The townsman," said the manikin who was not in the least affected by the choking atmosphere, "is not the one who is eaten by the croco- dile." And men who leave magic alone, translated Samlor as he whirled toward glimpsed motion, aren't destroyed by its creatures. A hand was emerging from a slab of limestone on the far wall. It was tenuous enough that the settling dust coexisted with the limb, which was so thin that it would have been skeletal were it not for the gleam of a scaly integument. The three fingers each bore a claw an inch long and sharp as shattered glass. "Get up the ladder!" Samlor shouted as he leaped for the apparition behind the watered steel blade of his dagger. The hilt was adequate for his big hand when he slashed with it, though it was shaped wrong and would have been uncomfortably short had he chosen to thrust . . . Which would have done as much good; as much, and no more. The clawed hand twisted to grip the blade while an arm as wire-thin as the hand continued to extend from the wall. Steel parted the limb like smoke, and the claws slipped through the whisking dagger as if it in turn had no substance. Another hand was reaching through the stone beside the first. The blur above and between them was growing into a narrow reptilian face. "Get out!" the caravan master shouted again when a glance toward the ladder showed him that Khamwas stood where he had. He had crossed the top of his staff with his left forearm. "No, run!" Khamwas replied. He had been chanting under his breath, and his face spasmed with the effort of breaking back into normal speech. "I released it again, but I can hold it for long enough." The demon's head and torso had emerged from the wall. One leg was striding forward in slow motion. The creature was half again as tall as Samlor, and it was thinner than anything could be and live. One hand shot out and snatched the sea urchin which shattered be- neath the claws into a cascade of mauve sparks. As the demon's arm 24 AFTERMATH vithdrew, the sparks formed again into their original shape. The creature )f light continued to pick its way through the air. Samlor was quite sure that if the claws closed on his niece, their effect vould be permanent. "Run. Star!" he shouted, afraid to turn from the demon. It continued :o pull itself from the stone. Khamwas hadn't moved, though his mouth resumed its unheard chanting. Maybe Samlor could jump for the ladder himself since the fool Napatan refused to do so. Slam the lid back over this hellish room—if the lid would close without a search for another mechanism. Run out the front door with Star in his arms, praying that he could work the bolts swiftly enough . . . praying that the doorkeeper would ignore them as they left, the way Khamwas had said it would . . . Samlor stepped forward and swung at the demon again. He wasn't going to abandon Khamwas to the creature unless there were no other choice. He chopped for a wrist. Instead of slipping through like light in mist, the caravan master's steel clanged as numbingly as if he had slashed an anvil. The demon seized the blade and began to chitter in high-pitched laughter, All of the demon but its right leg had pulled free of the wall. That leg was still smokily insubstantial, but the claws of the left foot cut triple furrows in the concrete as they strained to drag the creature wholly out of the stone. The left hand—forepaw—was reaching for Samlor's face while the right gripped his knife. Samlor's mouth had dropped open as he breathed through it, oblivious of the dust that would have made him cough another time. He jerked straight down on the dagger hilt, ducking from the swipe that started slowly as a boulder rolling, then completed its arc at blinding speed. The blade screeched clear. If a man had held it, his fingers would have been on the floor or dangling from twists of skin. The demon's paw was uninjured, and its claws had streaked the flat of the blade against which they were set. Samlor caught the throat-clasp of his cloak. He could throw the gar- ment like a net over the creature and— —and watch the claws shred it as the demon, steel strong and more than iron hard, leaped free to dispose of the men before it. The creature's eyes had no pupils and glowed orange, a color which owed nothing to the urchin which still tumbled innocently around the room. "Khamwas!" the caravan master shouted, because the demon was al- ready in the air and perhaps Khamwas could get up the ladder while the INHERITOR 125 Cirdonian occupied the creature with the process of being slaugh- tered . . . The demon halted in midair, its left foot above the concrete and its right leg, spindly and terrible as that of a giant spider, lifting to deliver a kick that would disembowel Samlor. Dust settled and the urchin of light rolled jerkily forward, one spine at a time, but the creature hung frozen like an idol of ravening destruction. Its eyes were as bright as tunnels to hell. Samlor started another cut at the demon. Light reflecting from the triple scratch on his blade reminded him how useless that would be. so he turned instead to Khamwas. Who had not moved since last Samlor had leisure to glance at him. Khamwas hunched slightly forward, his left forearm crossing the top of his staff and his eyes fixed on the demon with a reptile's intensity. Tjainufi still perched on his shoulder. The Napatan's lips had been moving soundlessly, but now he said in a cracked whisper, "Go on ... quickly." The demon was not quite frozen. The movements the creature began before Khamwas's spell took effect were still going on. The leg that stretched toward Samlor at a glacial pace quickened noticeably when the Napatan spoke, and the demon's mouth gaped slowly to display arrays of interlocked teeth like needles in the upper and lower jaws. "But how can you—" the caravan master began as he slipped a step back, beyond the present arc of the claws. The demon bent at its girl-slim waist as it leaped, because otherwise its flat skull would have banged the ten-foot ceiling. "Samlor," said the Napatan scholar, "get out! I brought you here!" The demon had trembled back to near stasis for a moment. Now it lurched far enough forward in its unsupported motion that it was clear one hand was reaching for Khamwas's head even as the kick extended toward the Cirdonian. "There is none who abandons his traveling companion whom the gods do not call to account for it," said Tjainufi. "Fuck your gods," said Samlor, who was already sliding the knife back under his belt to free his hands. He encircled the Napatan's waist, under- neath the cape for a firmer grip, with his left arm. "No—" said Khamwas desperately. "Do yowjob," Samlor snarled back as he lifted the smaller man. The air swirled with the demon's renewed movement, but the claws now behind the caravan master did not rend him as he stepped with regal determination to the ladder. Focusing on the creature from the stone was for Khamwas. Samlor hil 126 AFTERMATH Samt had the responsibility of getting them both back up the ladder while his companion did that job, eyes, arm, and staff locked into their duty Khamwas's body was muscular, but weight wasn't the problem. Carry- ing him upright while Samlor's right hand needed to grip the ladder for balance was brutal punishment, and it reminded him of how badly he had strained himself getting into this damned house One foot above the other, each step a deliberate one because a jolt at the wrong time might break Khamwas's concentration irrevocably No way to tell what was happening behind him, nothing to do about it if things weren't well One foot and then the other. A gust of wind shocked Samlor as his head lifted above the floor of the reception hall Fabric, a curtain or a counterpane, had been snatched from a room on the upper floor and was flapping from the railing Star was calm as molten glass as she watched her uncle struggle up the ladder with the other man clamped to his side At his first wild glance, Samlor thought the whorl of white hair on the child's temple was one of the creatures of light which pulsed through the reception hall It was so bright He couldn't bend over to balance with his palm on the floor as he neared the top of the ladder, so the caravan master mounted the last three rungs at a quickened pace Toppling backward would mean the floor killed them if the demon didn't, but if Samlor sprawled on his face the result would be no better He'd seen the creature start to move, it would be on them in an instant ifKhamwas were flung out of his concen- tration Samlor stepped from the top rung to the marble floor, sucking in his lips as he strove to move as smoothly as a duck gliding on water He set the Napatan down, conscious of the man's weight only after he was free of it, and with the same motion strode for the wall and the latch mecha- nism Khamwas's voice was audible again, breaking with strain as he chanted over and over again a dozen or so words Sweat from the Napatan's face had splashed Samlor's left forearm as he climbed The caravan master's boot skidded when he tried to slide back the piece the marble which was half withdrawn beneath the molding Instead of trying again with his hobnails, Samlor knelt and scrabbled at the black stone with both sweaty palms It moved into position with the same greasy certainty with which it had opened The pond of mirror-smooth water slipped down to cover the demon soundlessly Samlor skidded as he ran from the sidewall to the front door Hobnails weren't the footgear for these polished stones . . and this house wasn't INHERITOR 127 a place for humans Not now, and probably not before Setios's pet got loose There was no inside door latch "You didn't let them out, Master Khamwas," said Star, patting the hand of the scholar who had knelt and was sobbing with exhaustion 'They're playing with us " "Come on," Samlor shouted There was certainly a way to open the inner and outer doors from here, but he didn't have time to fool with it. "We're leaving the way we came'" "There's six of them. Uncle Samlor," said Star. "They're playing with us" Something emerged from the pilaster beside the stairs to the second floor It was a clawed hand like that of the demon below Instead of streaming like smoke from the stone, it broke free as a chick emerges from an egg Rock shattered away from the groping limb, and a section of the wall started to lift Khamwas rose to his feet His face was blank and his body swayed with fatigue He crossed his arm over the staff again and began a whis- pered chant The wall from which the demon crashed, already formed, was load- bearing Tortured roof beams squealed as plaster in chunks of up to a hundred pounds broke away A big piece hit the center of the pond and blasted water out across the reception hall Samlor caught his niece with one arm and Khamwas with the other He flung them, all three together, to the floor against the nearer sidewall A block of stone, notched for the butt of a crossbeam, tumbled from the roof to the rail of the second-floor walkway, then caromed to the floor in a shower of dust and chips. "We'll get out through the back'" said the caravan master who doubted that they would. The wall beside where they hunched under cover of the walkway was crumbling as gray claws harder than the stone emerged from it Across the reception room, the other sidewall was disintegrating m a shower of bits and blocks They hid but did not disguise the cause of the destruction One of the demons was clasping a dismembered human leg Samlor figured he knew where Setios and his servants had gone Six of 'em, Star'd said Likely five more than they'd need, but you didn't quit Just because you couldn't win The three humans rose and scuttled for the room's back wall and the door there They were bent over because the walkway's partial roof was no protection against blocks bouncing from the floor at crazy angles. The front half of the house staggered forward into the street with a 128 AFTERMATH roar. The sound did not seem loud until Samlor realized that he could not shout with enough volume to be heard by the two companions he had dragged with him into the temporary safety of the door alcove. Skeletal, inhumanly tall figures minced toward the trio, shrugging off the tons of rubble that had thundered down on them. There were four, and the mound of stone and timber covering what had been the floor of the reception room heaved as the creature in the room beneath rejoined its fellows. Sheets of pain flapped across Samlor's body from a center where his right hip had blocked a ricocheting chunk of stone that weighed as much as he did. The crosswall dividing the house was built as solidly as the exterior. It remained essentially undisturbed when the emerging demons had shattered the front of the house. That portion of the building had demolished itself as brittle stone shifted in a vain attempt to find new foundations. The door in front of Samlor was locked or possibly jammed when ruin made the house twist, but the panel was only thin wood inlaid with horn and ivory in patterns which were probably significant as well as decora- tive. Khamwas pounded it with the ferule of his staff, breaking off scales of ivory without doing anything to get them through the doorway. Samlor would have kicked the latchplate, but he was pretty sure that his right hip would neither support him alone nor lift his boot high enough for the purpose. Wondering how many seconds they had before a demon lunged onto them, he rotated on his left heel and grabbed a torso- sized block from the wreckage that had spilled inward during the col- lapse. The demons were advancing with tiny steps, chittering in self-satisfac- tion. When they chose to, they picked their way over the piled rubble, but one of the four figures strode through the tons of jumbled rock like a man wading in the surf. The fifth of the creatures heaved itself into sight with the ease of a toadstool bursting pavement to reach the open air, "Care—" cried Samlor, turning with the block in his hands. The movement was so painful that he could feel only his scalp, his palms, and the ball of his left foot. "—ful!" The stone splintered the door and carried on, crashing on the floor of the hallway beyond and then bouncing harmlessly from the legs of the sixth demon poised there with its arms spread across the passage. The air was dead still. The caravan master turned again, no more conscious of his pain than a fox is conscious of the way its lungs burn from its running when the hounds encircle it for the last time. "The sky," Khamwas said hoarsely. "Look." INHERITOR 129 Samlor drew the long dagger from his belt and lifted Star to his chest with his free arm. The semicircle of demons waited, crouching slightly, with their spindly, steelstrong arms interlocked. They were close enough that if one of the creatures leaned forward, it could rip the caravan master's face away in its pointed teeth. "Look!" Khamwas screamed, and even so his voice was smothered by a sound like the scream of a giant snake. Samlor looked up. He could see almost a mile into the sky, up the lightning-lit throat of a descending tornado funnel. The lower end was shaggy with tentacles of water vapor condensing in the lowered pressure surrounding six separate suction vortices. They ex- tended toward the ruined house. "Down!" cried the caravan master, but Star twisted like an eel from his arms and stood while the two men tried to flatten themselves. One of the demons leaped away, covering twenty feet of the distance toward the street before being caught by a suction vortex- The creature reeled upward into the main funnel, like a crab being lifted into an octopus's crushing beak. Blue-white lightning licked soundlessly but with coronal radiance from one side of the void to the other- The funnel hovered at the level of what remained of Setios's roof. A miniature vortex snaked past Star's erect head, so close that it should have touched her hair but didn't. It was no more than the diameter of a wine jar, spinning widdershins though the main cloud rotated with the sun. Samlor lay on his back, clutching the medallion of Heqt in his left hand as he watched transfixed. The broken door panel exploded into splinters. They cleared themselves up the shaft of the screaming vortex. The demon flashed out in the grip of the wind, upright and battling momentarily while its hinder claws gouged pieces the size of a man's fist from the stone of the doorjambs. Then the creature was gone, falling upward into the sky in a helix so tight that its limbs had been plucked from the body before it disappeared into the tunnel of lightning. The tornado was lifting and folding in on itself like a purse whose drawstrings were being tightened. Samlor hadn't seen what happened to the four remaining demons, but they had vanished when he knelt to look around. "If you are not slack," said Tjainufi in a perfectly audible voice, "then your god will be active for you." Samlor uncurled his fingers from the amulet of Heqt; but it had not been to the toad goddess that he screamed his prayers in the last in- stants . . . 130 AFTERMATH "I thought Mommy's box was empty," said Star as her eyes met the caravan master's "But it wasn't " The tornado funnel flattened into the overcast almost a mile above Sanctuary Only then did the normal wind return, a huge gust of it, and with it the start of a cold downpour It was as dark again as the inside of a tomb. But the whorl of hair on Star's temple burned for a moment like the heart of the lightning A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE John Brunner By lamplight, by firelight, on a winter evening, Jarveena of Forgotten Holt sat at dinner with the less-than-man whose foreign agent she had been for these seven years. In the years since she had served him merely as a scribe-interpreter, Master Melilot had changed but little He was portlier, admittedly—the satin robe he splashed with grease as he gnawed at the carcass of his third wild duck stretched smooth across his ample paunch—but his suety face was equally innocent of wrinkles and would no doubt remain so till his death Most certainly of all, his inner nature had not altered Though he was a great deal richer than of yore—Jarveena knew that for a fact, having put several immensely profitable deals his way, and having laid the foun- dations of a fortune for herself—the outward signs of his prosperity were few He was still reluctant to part with money save when it was unavoid- able, food still came to his table from the fire shared between the kitchen and the bindery adjacent to the scriptorium on the entrance floor, and those who clambered up and down the ladderlike stairs with wine jars and full and empty dishes were still the same sort of apprentices, not engaged just now in copying or studying A thousand others would have flaunted their wealth by buying slaves, or installed one of the hoists of late so popular in Ranke, which delivered food piping-hot by way of a shaft sunk in the wall Not Melilot He knew that an excessive display of worldly goods was a sure way to attract the interest of thieves, and he had no wish to be at the expense of hiring armed watchmen It was cheaper to rely, by day, on the constant vigilance of his staff, and by night 132 AFTERMATH on the geese he had installed on the roof, in what formerly had been the nauseous dwelling of the drunken nobleman whose ancestors had built this once fine mansion. He had gone to his repose; now the geese could be trusted to disturb everybody's at a nocturnal shout or footfall, a com- plaining bolt, or the creaking of a shutter jimmied open. Besides, here in Sanctuary, what guards were available were as likely as anyone else to rob their employers if they felt they could get away with their loot. Despite his visibly good appetite, Melilot was uneasy. As well as Jarveena, another guest sat at his table. It was not his custom to admit strangers to his private quarters. Had the fellow not been vouched for by Jarveena personally, he would never have set foot outside the public areas below. Yet he had been vouched for in a most disturbing fashion. Had he somehow ensnared the girl—woman, Melilot corrected himself, remem- bering how much time had elapsed—perhaps by magic? Was their pres- ence part of some secret plot against him? It was second nature to all in Sanctuary to think in such terms, from lifelong habit. Keeping up, between mouthfuls, a flow of gossip as entertaining as might be heard anywhere in the city and a sight more trustworthy than most, given that it was based on what he daily gleaned from the docu- ments given him to transcribe or translate, Melilot studied Jarveena from the corner of his eye. She had changed more than he had in the past decade—and small wonder, given the difference in their age and bodily condition—but she still affected mannish garb, boots and breeches and laced jerkin. She was still, moreover, patterned with vicious scars, though they were far less conspicuous than formerly. Therein lay the reason for her annual returns to Sanctuary, and also why she was not already as rich as Melilot. Spells were not cheap, particularly when one must apply to Enas Yorl for them: one of the three greatest wizards in the land. Under his care, the lash marks on her hands and arms had faded until they were no more than a tracery beneath her tawny skin—and no doubt elsewhere on her body, for her once unequal bosom swelled identically now on left and right, signifying that the old brown keloid had been spirited away and left her form as shapely as that of anyone her age not yet a mother, and more than most thanks to her active way of life. Oddly, though, she had not begun where most young women would have, with her face as being most exposed to public view. Still, when she tossed her head in laughter at some especially extravagant yam recounted by her host, one might glimpse the hideous cicatrix she could reveal by drawing A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 133 down her eyebrows, that mark which in the days when she resided here she had used to such effect in cowing disobedient junior apprentices . . . Oh, she had always been a strange one, this Jarveena! He had been positively glad when she decided to take ship away from Sanctuary after that unpleasant episode involving an enchanted scroll, treachery on the part of a trusted officer, and an attempt to assassinate the Prince.* Yes, indeed. Life was a great deal more comfortable knowing that this unpredictable person, half loyal employee and half explosive spitfire, was safe at sea or bargaining on his behalf in distant ports. The times when she came back to claim her pay, and spend the greater part of it again in a single day, were far from the happiest of Melilot's existence . . . And now she had arrived, for the first time ever, with a companion. Male, at that. Discarding the third duck, belching unrestrainedly and calling for more wine, he shifted his attention to this stranger even as he launched into the best and funniest of the rumors he had lately garnered. It concerned the plight of a rascally sea captain, Stong by name, half mariner, half smuggler, who had taken aboard, all unwitting, both a chestful of silver put long ago by Mizraith under a geas that sooner or later would compel its restoration to its rightful owner, and also the victim of a S'danzo curse designed to drive him away from Sanctuary for all time. He decorated the tale with all sorts of risible detail, much of which he invented on the spot, and Jarveena, relaxed by his good wine, enjoyed it to the full. One of the changes she had undergone during her extensive travels was the acquisition of a keen sense of humor. In her teens she had had little to laugh at, or about. Her companion, however, made no pretense even of smiling. His glum face remained as impassive as a stone idol's except at reference to the S'danzo curse, whereupon he favored Jarveena with a scowl. What, Melilot asked himself, could have persuaded her to bring this boorish fellow here? So far he knew nothing about him save his name, and that was outlandish and nearly unpronounceable, something like "Klikitak" except that it ended with a rasp: Klikitagh? Of course, a few hints could be deduced from his appearance. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep, his hands large and sinewy: the figure of a man of action. Moreover he was of a striking color, for be- tween his fair beard and bushy fair hair his cheeks and forehead were windburned to a pale clear red after so many days at sea. But never in all his life, not even when dealing with some nobleman's illiterate wife desperate to know whether letters brought secretly to her husband and intercepted described her infidelities, had Melilot seen such * See "Sentences of Death," in Thieves' World. 134 AFTERMATH unalloyed misery on a human countenance Why, even Enas Yorl, sport of a thousand mindless spells that changed his shape, his sex, and now and then his species, contrived to extract a certain wry and resigned humor from his predicament . . He ended his story, and Jarveena, hooting with laughter, clapped her hands. The pretty ten-year-old girl who stood silently m one corner be- side the wine jug mistook her applause for a signal to replenish their mugs, and made haste to obey Melilot did not correct her He had hopes of loosening the stranger's tongue, and in that project liquor was his chiefest ally "I note, sir," he said with disapproval that was only partly feigned, "you were not amused by the plight of Captain Stong Is one to take it that it was because you are unfamiliar with crucial references therein, as to the S'danzo curse and legendary Mizraith's skill as an enchanter^ You have the air of a far-traveled man, not acquainted with the ways and notables of Sanctuary." Klikitagh stirred, and for the first time uttered more than a discourte- ous grunt; he had not even expressed thanks for the generous repast that had been set before him "No, sir," he returned "Is because in part I can not well to understand your saying " Hmm' That aroused Melilot's professional instincts What could this fellow's native language be7 The accent was none that he recognized, nor was the curious turn of phrasing Mayhap Klikitagh was literate in some language lacking from the list posted at the door of his scriptorium, though that was longer by three, possibly four, than the best his rivals had to oner If only to learn how to recognize a script he hadn't run across before, it would be worth his while to pick the stranger's brains Before Melilot could formulate any proposal, however, the other had gone on "And in other bigger part because is not a matter for make jest, a curse Speak as pitiably victim knowing well from agony anti-justice, cruelness, of making curse against mnocency man, me, self" That emphatic addition occurs in Yemzed, but never at the end of a sentence . . Oh, I'm really on to something here' Excited, Melilot beck- oned the girl back from her corner to pour still more wine But Klikitagh refused, covering his mug with a broad palm "Tired I to sleep Must go, we " As though taking Jarveena's consent for granted, he gathered the sword belt he had hung on the back of his chair and rose, extending his hand to help her up also A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 135 She ignored it A sudden angry flush deepened the color of Klikitagh's cheeks He said, "You not—" "I have business to discuss with Melilot," she cut m "One of the kids will show you to the guest apartment I'll join you later " Hastily, for fear of Klikitagh provoking a quarrel that. as surely with Jarveena as with any haughty bladesman of the city, might become a fight, Melilot forced his immense bulk out of his chair. "That is so, sir," he confirmed. "But I assure you I shall keep our conversation as brief as may be " He hesitated, trying to gauge the depth and cause of Klikitagh's ill temper "If perchance you fear I may trespass on some right of intimacy the lady has, for the time being, granted to yourself, I pray you consider the—ah—visible signs of my incompetence m that regard " Klikitagh's face remained blank Melilot realized he was so nervous that out of habit he had used formal, high-flown terms, incomprehensible to this foreigner He made hasty amends "It is as Jarveena has said My guest apartment is at your disposal During your stay at Sanctuary I look forward to chatting with you about your native country and its script and language, it would be most inter- esting, indeed a positive pleasure, to hear you on the subject Accord- ingly, rather than dismiss you to some flea-ridden tavern like the Vulgar Unicorn, I suggest you make my home your base until you have com- pleted whatever business brings you here Feel free to come and go . . ." His words trailed away Klikitagh was scowling worse than ever His hand would have fallen to his sword hilt—he had refused to be parted from the weapon, bad manners though it was to bring it into his host's dining room—had Jarveena not caught his fingers in her own, slimmer but almost as strong With a sour gnn she said, "You've upset the poor bastard Not surprising I'll take him away and pacify him, and come back " "Pacifying" Klikitagh took so long that Melilot, growing drowsy from the fumes of wine, was on the point of postponing further conversation with Jarveena to the morrow—the street outside having reached that pitch of quietness after which almost any noise might set his geese to cackling—when, silent as a shadow, she returned wearing nothing but her skin and slumped back into her chair He noticed that his guess about the keloid on her chest had been correct "Foof" she exclaimed, though she kept her voice low "If I'd known what a handful Klikitagh can be I'd never have agreed to help him Still, you can't help feeling sorry for the poor devil, can you?" 136 AFTERMATH "Personally," Melilot grunted, "I find it the easiest thing in the world to avoid doing so. What spell has he cast on you, who never before to my knowledge felt sorry for anybody save yourself—and maybe Enas Yorl?" She pantomimed hurling her wine mug at him, but cancelled the move- ment with a wry smile at his reflexive flinch. The mug turned out to be empty. Glancing around, she saw that the little girl in the corner had dozed off. Remembering, perhaps, the days when she, too, had had to wait on Melilot's pleasure after dinner, she went to help herself. Having taken a swig and topped it up a second time, she resumed her place. "All right." She sighed. "I guess I'd better tell you Klikitagh's story." "I'd rather hear about the deals with—" "Tomorrow will do!" she interrupted. "Or more likely the day after." "I was afraid of that," the master scribe muttered. "On the first full day of each of your visits to Sanctuary, you invariably have urgent busi- ness . . . Still, if this time you can afford to have Enas Yorl charm away the scar on your forehead"—brightening—"you'll no longer present such an alarming aspect every time you shake aside your forelock." "It's true that I intend to wait on Enas Yorl tomorrow, as I always do." Jarveena wasn't looking at him, but at the fading glories of the painted ceiling, on which the lamps and the flames from the dying logs combined to cast curious and intersecting shadows, as though some ma- gician were eavesdropping on them and letting his attention wander now and then from the spell that assured his invisibility. "But this time, not for my own sake." "For . . . his?" Reaching for his own mug, Melilot was so astonished he almost spilled the contents. "Yes indeed." After that there was a lengthy silence, broken only by the occasional sputtering of a jet of gas boiled out from the dampest and longest-lasting log across the fire dogs. Eventually noise drifted from outside: the tramp of booted feet on cobblestones. One of the night patrols was passing, composed of men trained locally to Hell-Hound standards of discipline; yet even they did not dare to venture abroad except in twos, so lawless and unruly was this premier melting pot of cities. The geese were accustomed to the sound of their passage, and the boss gander marked it with no more than an evil- sounding hiss. Having watched the gleam of the patrol's lantern approach and fade on the curtains that masked his streetward window, Melilot said, "Are you sure he has not cast a spell on you? Last year you said this was to be the time of your final visit to Enas Yorl, at least for personal reasons. You A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 137 said that after it your face would be restored to the same condition as your"—he coughed behind one plump hand—"the rest of you." "I'm having second thoughts," Jarveena muttered. "It's sometimes not a bad thing to be able to turn off an unwanted suitor just by doing this." And she drew her eyebrows down, glaring at him from beneath their two graceful arcs. At once Melilot's gaze, against his will, was drawn away from the rest of her face and horribly concentrated on the livid cicatrix that marred her forehead and instantly made her handsome features more repulsive than the worst invention of Sanctuary's hawkmasks. "You haven't done it to him." Melilot suggested. "Yes. At first. It had no effect. That was what got me interested Klik- itagh." She had perfectly mastered the final sound of the name; Melilot, to his shame, knew that he would have to practice it half a dozen times aloud and in private before he dared address the man directly. "What, then, followed?" "The discovery that something worse could happen to a person than what I went through as a child." For an instant her face reflected memories of long ago and far away. Melilot, knowing what was in her mind, shivered. To have been raped repeatedly, then whipped and left for dead among the ruins of her native village Holt—not for nothing now referred to as Forgotten—when she was no more than nine . . . Was that not sufficient horror to enter into anybody's life? Yet she had found someone who, in her view, had suffered even more. What monstrous events, then, lay in the past of Klikitagh? Huskily he said, "Tell me his tale." "Let it begin," she said after reflection, "with the reason why he took offense at your offer of free lodging. I know you'd not have made it had you not expected quid pro quo. It's all, of course, beside the point, but what he might be able to teil you of his mother tongue would be quite useless. Whether he can write I've not inquired; the same applies." "Still, knowledge of any distant language—" "Even a dead one? Dead for centuries?" "What?" Melilot jolted forward on his chair, one careless elbow over- setting his mug—but it was empty, and he lacked the energy to rise and fill it for himself. "Do you not believe there were great magicians in the past?" Jarveena challenged. "You mean . . ." Melilot sank back slowly into his usual pot-bellied slouch, staring into nowhere. "Out with it!" 138 AFTERMATH "He's under an immortality spell?" "That's only the half of it. Don't imagine you should envy him!"—in a sharp tone of warning. "On the contrary! He is the most pitiable creature I have ever met, and in your service 1 have traveled back and forth across the whole known world. Is that not so?" Melilot nodded dumbly. "Then listen." She leaned toward the fire with chin on fists; the flames made patterns of darkness dart across her face and body. "What lies on him is no mere spell, but a tremendous curse. In it consists the reason why he was angry when you offered him lodging. He cannot accept. Nor will he eat your dinner tomorrow or on any other evening. You see . . ." She weighed her words with care. "He is bound never to sleep two nights in the same bed, nor eat a second meal from the same table. And this has been his doom for a thousand years." Now for a great while Melilot sat motionless, save insofar as the play of fire- and lamplight kept up a constant illusion of movement through- out the room. Finally he had to stifle a yawn. But behind his plump, inscrutable face it seemed his mind had been working hard enough, albeit along lines that were familiar in Sanctuary more than any other place. "Would this not imply that he cannot be kept in jail?" he suggested. "Why, you—!" Jarveena leaped to her feet, brandishing her mug as though to brain him with it. Only a warning hiss from the gander beyond the ceiling prevented her. But her face was aglow with fury as she sat down again. "Is that all you can think about? How would you like to be in his shoes?" "Not at all," the fat one answered candidly. "I'm sorry; I hadn't thought the matter through ... To what is owed this fearful geas, then?" "I've no idea. Moreover, nor does he." "But that's ridiculous!" Melilot stared at her. "You mean he won't admit—" "I mean precisely what I said!" Do you think I haven't pestered him with questions? Do you think I haven't put him under oath? He has sworn by all the gods and goddesses whose names I recognize, plus one or two I never ran across before, that he believes the curse to be unjust. He says, and I've been able to confirm, that he has consulted every magi- cian whom he could afford to pay, and none has given him surcease. What is more, none has contrived to relieve his misery by telling him the curse indeed is warranted. Were he aware of what he is accursed for, he might at least attempt an expiation. Can you think of a crueler fate than A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 139 his? He is being punished—endlessly, horribly punished—for something he has no memory of having done! Is he not truly to be pitied?" A shudder plus a vigorous nod made Melilot's gross body wobble under his fine robe. "But how does he make shift aboard a ship?" he demanded. "If he may not sleep twice in the same bed—" "He brought a hammock, and each night slung it from two different posts or hooks. This is permissible." "Then: eating twice from the same table?" "Until this evening I had not seen him eat from a table at all. Aboard ship, he carried his dish to a different spot on deck or in the 'tween-decks, but this strategem did not entirely serve; our voyage, as you know, was prolonged by a contrary wind, and for the last two days he did not eat at all. In the tavern where I met him, where he had already spent a week, he had to bribe its keeper to move him each night to a different bunk or pallet, and since there were only two tables for the customers he was reduced to eating on the floor, like a dog. He was much mocked in consequence." "Has he described what happens when he tries to defy the curse?" "He cannot. He says he's never had the power to do so. It is, he says, as though he has become a well-trained animal. Though he might sit down to your table tomorrow, be he never so hungry his hands would remain in his lap, refusing to lift food to his lips; though he might fall upon the softest couch in the world, weary to the marrow of his bones, only the first time would he be allowed repose. Thereafter he would toss about all night, unless exhaustion drove him to prefer the floor. He must, he says, avoid the highest and the lowest sorts of lodging: the former because the wealthy often buy antiques, the latter because the poor make shift with what's been handed down or looted from abandoned homes. This carven table might be one he ate from centuries ago, that horsehair pallet might have been in use elsewhere. The curse still holds, even at so remote a reach; he starves, he grows red-eyed with lack of sleep, until he wanders on and falls exhausted." "How does he live? What trade is open to him?" Melilot demanded. Jarveena shrugged. "I think when all else fails he has to rob. But there are tasks even a wanderer may undertake. He goes a lot to sea; sometimes he enlists to guard a caravan; he has hinted at having been a courier, and carried confidential mail. Naturally, though, he can't serve long on any given route." "Naturally," Melilot said in a dry tone, and had to hide another yawn. "Well, my dear Jarveena, if it's any consolation, you have indeed elicited my sympathy. Your vivid picture of his unendurable existence must move 140 AFTERMATH the stoniest of hearts—which mine, as you're aware, is not. Let us hope for both your sakes that Enas Yorl relieves the curse tomorrow. Go now and tell your friend I wish he may sleep soundly in my guest room, since it may only be this once. And leave me your report and your accounts, so I may peruse them while you're with the wizard." "You'll find them all in order." "Are they not always so?" "Of course. How otherwise could I have kept on your right side so long?" Rising with a chuckle, she headed for the door. Passing his chair, she bent to plant a kiss on his shaven pate. "Thank you for allowing Klikitagh to stay. It can't be often that he enjoys such luxury." Said Melilot: "I didn't notice him enjoying it . . ." And his little joke sent him contentedly to bed. Waking, but with eyes still closed, Jarveena abruptly grew aware of another presence near at hand, apart from Klikitagh. She tensed, sliding her fingers beneath her pillow in search of the knife that never left her reach. It wasn't there. Come to that, neither was the pillow! She sat up with a jerk, eyes wide in alarm. Melilot's guest room had vanished. This was another place entirely, a long low-ceilinged stone- walled hall, wherein she found herself on an oblong padded couch, Klik- itagh still at her side. The air was pleasantly warm, pervaded with fra- grance from dried herbs sprinkled on a brazier. Looking down on her, clad in a many-layered cape, was a tall and rather handsome youth . . . but where a normal person's eyes would be, there burned two red betraying sparks. She exhaled with a gasp. "Enas Yorl!" she exclaimed. Her voice roused Klikitagh. He came together all of a piece, instantly swinging his legs to the floor—which was spread with soft pelts, sable, marten, and sea otter. He cast around for his sword, but there was no sign of it, or of his clothing. Perceiving in the unknown youth a captor and perhaps a rival, he shook sleep from his brain and advanced with both fists clubbed, Or rather, tried to do so. When he set his foot down a second time, his limbs slowed, as though he were forcing his way through deep water against a fierce contrary current. With vast effort he achieved another step, but that was all; eventually he remained utterly still, balanced ab- surdly on his left leg, mouth ajar in a face that had become a mask of fury and frustration. A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 141 Jarveena knew how he was feeling. Just so had she been trapped at her first unexpected entry into the magician's palace. Guarded by basilisks, it lay beside and beneath Prytanis Street, to the southeast of the Avenue of Temples. Except, of course, when it was somewhere else . . . Licking her lips, for even after all these years it awed her to be in the presence of Enas Yorl, especially naked—there was no point in adding "and defenseless," for few there were in all of the known world who could withstand the power of such a wizard—she said, "Sometimes I wonder why you keep basilisks and yet enforce that spell in person. Do they not jest about the man who kept a dog and barked himself?" "Who fold you there was no trace of basilisk in me?" replied the seeming youth in mocking tones. "Welcome back to Sanctuary, Jarveena. You were most royally entertained by Melilot the pinchpenny last night. The flavor of those roasted ducks must have been excellent!" Even as he spoke, his face was slowly altering. His eyebrow ridges in particular were thickening. Meantime his shoulders, gradually hunched. Jarveena knew what such a rapid change betokened. • "You've been engaged in a considerable magic," she deduced. "Were you indeed one of the shadows that played around the fat one's dining room?" He inclined his head. "Can you have been that eager to see me again? Did you wish to find out whether I'd added any more scars to my toll, making more work for you in fading them?" But these gibes were a mere cover for her nervousness. Besides, Enas Yorl was paying them no heed. He was contemplating Klikitagh with a frown. After a moment he touched the man's temples gently and briefly with his forefingers. He said at length, "I heard his story as you recounted it last night. Now I can tell you one extremely curious fact. He does believe, with all his heart, that the curse upon him is unjust. But in my centuries of life— brief though they be compared to his, of course—I have read, been told, found though experience, that to impose so powerful and durable a spell on an innocent victim is, if not forbidden, self-defeating. It must turn again upon the one who cast it. So say all the best authorities." "Might there not have been exceptions in the past?" Jarveena ven- tured- "Could there not have been ancient powers that since have been forgotten?" "How can that be so, when Klikitagh has trudged from wizard to enchanter to magician for a thousand years, telling them his tale and 142 AFTERMATH begging them to strike off the fetters of his life9 There's more to this than meets the inward eye Come' Let us start the day with food " That was not the usual first engagement she had with the wizard. Puzzled by the change, though not especially dismayed, she ascribed it perhaps to his unwillmgness to engage in the lists of love with a third party present—though she was sure he must have rendered Klikitagh blind and deaf and lost to the passage of time In her heart of hearts, though, she knew it was because he was inter- ested much more by the stranger than herself Turning away, Enas Yorl made a pass in the air and the far end of the immense hall drew obediently closer There stood a table set with bread and fruit and bowls of steaming broth, along with stoups of fragrant wine Assuming a high-backed chair, as though by afterthought he said, "Oh—clothe my visitors " Unseen hands wrapped Jarveena in a silken gown, even to the point of fastening its sash She glanced at Klikitagh, a robe of homespun cloth as harsh as sacking fell around his awkwardly posturing frame "You will not let him join us9" she suggested "He is feeling neither hunger nor thirst," replied the wizard "Besides, I may need to loose his tongue by conventional means, as Melilot essayed to do last night with scant success How can I, if he has already eaten from my table9" "But surely . ." she began, and bit her lip "You were going to say," came the resigned reply, "you have such confidence in my abilities, you fully expect him to be set free by nightfall Well, if so he will of course be dead—had that point not occurred to you9 But the outcome is by no means certain Join me' Sit down' Toast your return beneath my roof" She obeyed, having no alternative The wizard's wine, as ever, was superb Compared to it the best of Melilot's was sharp as vinegar The food, too, was exceptional, but she found she had little appetite, though Enas Yorl ate briskly enough. He had let slip, long ago, that magic was a tiring business, draining the practitioner of energy as much as any normal kind of plain hard work. Jarveena, however, was dis- tracted by the way his face and hidden body kept on changing, as the minutes ebbed away . . At last she could contain herself no longer She burst out, "Old friend —if I may call you so—what drew your interest to Klikitagh9" "Old friend9" Enas Yorl repeated, wiping lips that now were broader and flatter than before, beneath a broader, flatter nose and beetling brows "Why, there are few so kindly disposed to me as to call me friend at all—and that, of course, is by design' Nonetheless, I'll not hold your A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 143 choice of words against you'" He gave a harsh laugh and drained his goblet "Know, then, that it was much despite my will I guard myself from sentimental ties that might bind me to this world, hoping for the day when I myself can be released by death I would not care to overlook the chance of escape because I regretted leaving anyone, or anything, be- hind . " He seemed oddly reluctant in his speech, as though making a shameful confession "Nonetheless I have developed a certain attachment to yourself There is, admittedly, an element of sensuality involved, that apart, however, I prefer to keep it on the level of—shall we say9—respectful admiration Few who have so much reason to devote their lives to seeking revenge break away from their obsession, you have done so " "Because the taste of vengeance was not sweet," Jarveena muttered "It turned to ashes in my mouth " "Even so, even so ... Reverting to the point when I discerned that you had taken up with a companion, I rejoiced I watch you sometimes m my scrying glass, you know " "I didn't'" she said, startled "I don't know whether to be flattered, or —Never mind' Continue'" "As I say I rejoiced, hoping that our attachment would thereby be weakened Despite my best intentions, though, I grew curious concerning him what manner of man, I asked myself, could win Jarveena from her wild, her willful ways9 Inevitably, in the moment I found out, I was ensnared " "I don't see— Oh'" Jarveena leaned her elbows on the table, goblet cradled in brown hands "If he is truly innocent, the curse on him must be stronger than the spells that bind yourself Break his, and you may find the way to break your own " "Did I not know you to be ungifted in that area, I might well say you read my mind " There was silence between them for a while At last Jarveena looked him straight in his unhuman eyes "What are you going to do9" "I have already begun You would not know what day it is today, the calendar that counts it has been long disused But it was necessary that you and he should come here now—not yesterday and not tomorrow Otherwise one would have had to wait a quarter year " "You conjured up the wind that delayed our ship'" "It was imperative " "Then you must think there's a chance'" 144 AFTERMATH "Of freeing Klikitagh? Perhaps. First, though, I must learn the reason why the curse is on him." "But you said already that he doesn't know! So how—?" "Wait." The magician raised one hand which no longer matched his handsome youthful countenance—not that he was so handsome any longer, either. "What I said was that he honestly believes it was put upon him unjustly. That does not mean there was no reason for it. I assure you, even a thousand years ago no one would have undertaken such a work without a reason. Klikitagh may indeed be innocent; if so, there is a great and long-outstanding blame to visit on the perpetrator of a crime against him. Or, more like, descendants of those who benefited by its perpetration." "But how can he not be innocent, having sworn by—? I waste my breath. You must already know." "Indeed I do. That is perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the mat- ter." Enas Yorl rose. "Now I must further the business. Time is wasting." "May I wait? May I be of assistance?" "You may not," The wizard's tone was final. "You will go hence about your own affairs. About now Melilot is rising, and he will be eager to discuss your trip. He will display great reluctance to mention Klikitagh, and you yourself will give the fellow not a second thought, save perhaps to hope occasionally that I can rescue him. Until sundown. At the mo- ment when the sun cuts the horizon, you may return. Approach the entrance on Prytanis Street; address the basilisks by name—I'll teach you how—and they will let you by. If the work is not complete by dark, it will have failed." "But these winter days are so short!" Jarveena cried. "That is precisely why you must go now. It lacks less than an hour of dawn. Be on your way! No, wait! There's one thing more." "Yes?"—as she turned to obey. "No need to bring your customary fee. Reserve that for my final on- slaught on your scars. It is enough that you have given me my greatest challenge in a hundred years of weary life, the first of all that holds out hope for me ... Begone!" And she was gone, with further words unspoken on her lips. All transpired as had been promised. Jarveena spent the morning clos- eted with Melilot, snatched a brief lunch, and in the afternoon went to the wharf where goods that she had purchased with the money he ad- vanced her had been disposed in tidy piles: here, bales of cloth; there, jars of wine and oil; over there again small chests of spice, ingeniously A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 145 carpentered, that had a resale value of their own when empty. A certain portion being set aside for her, he paid her due commission on the rest. He might at one time have dreamed of cheating her, as he was used to cheating everybody else; her friendship with the powerful magician Enas Yorl prevented that. Besides, there was an additional advantage. It was not done to steal what Jarveena or any other associate of Enas Yorl's left on the wharf before it was transferred to guarded warehouses. Or not done more than once, at any rate . . . "Well, that concludes our business for the day!" said the master scribe heartily, handing his compendium and his account scrolls to a boy-in- waiting. "And in good time, what's more; it isn't even sunset, quite. Now I'm athirst. Shall we adjourn to yonder ale house and sample their mid- winter brew? Unless, that is, you're eager to rejoin your man and find him different lodging for tonight—" Klikitagh! Jarveena clapped hand to forehead. How was it possible? All day, since finding herself back at Melilot's, she had thought of nothing but cargo manifests and market prices and percentages! And^ the fat one had not even commented on her willingness to spend the time with him, when normally she would have been with the magician . . . And sundown now impended! "No! No!" she cried. "Don't hold me back an instant more!" Incontinently she took to her heels, The way from the harbor to Prytanis Street had never seemed so long, or so beset with moving obstacles. She lost count of the number of people she jostled against, the number of futile curses that were hurled after her. the times she herself cursed patrolmen shouting to know why she was running, imagining her to be a thief or cutpurse fleeing from her latest victim. Somehow, though, they realized: she was not running away from, but toward . . . The twin pillars of her destination loomed in the gloaming, accorded a wide berth by the foot passengers on their way to sunset service at the nearby temples. And small wonder. At the foot of each reposed a sleep- ing basilisk, secured at neck and leg with silver chains. As Jarveena rushed toward them, they became alert. Heads raised, they snuffed the air and listened, pondering in their slow reptilian way whether or not to open their eyes and cast their petrifying glare upon her. Enas Yorl had said, "I'll teach you how to call them by name—" But he hadn't! She stopped dead, searching the corridors of memory. No! She had no idea what she must say! 146 AFTERMATH "He forgot!" she moaned, clenching her fists in rage. And then, suddenly, she heard a groaning, grinding sound that made the pavement shudder underneath her feet. Looking up, she saw that the bronze door of the palace was sliding open, revealing a hall full of lumi- nescent mist. And on its threshold— "Klikitagh!" she exclaimed. Still in the homespun robe, barefoot, he seemed to respond to her cry. Shaking his head, he staggered down the five marble stairs that fronted the doorway. He accorded Jarveena a brief glance, but it was vacant, as though she meant no more to him than any chance-met passerby. "Klikitagh?" she said again, uncertainly. He struck her aside with violence, and staggered off into the darkness. In a moment the throng of temple-bound worshipers concealed him from Jarveena's view, while their chattering drowned out her shouts. "Death and destruction!" she exploded. She spun on her heel and dashed up the marble steps, desperate to pass the door before it ground shut again. The basilisks relaxed; lay down; resumed their former immobility. She was inside the misty hall before she realized what had happened- A great metallic slam announced the final closure of the door. She was alone, and more terrified than she had ever expected to be again in this life. The mist, though bright, was dense; she could not make out the walls. When she glanced down, she could barely see her own two feet. Abruptly she was gripped with pure cold rage. "Enas Yorl!" she shouted. "Damn you! What have you done?" Her surroundings shifted in unpleasant fashion, as though someone had taken normal space in either hand and given it a spiral twist. She felt she was about to lose her balance, though the weight remained on her soles. Clawing her knife from its scabbard, she prepared for an attack, knowing even as she clasped the hilt that any physical action here must be pointless. Then the mist cleared, and she recognized the subterranean hall where she had first met Enas Yorl against her will. There was the table so long it could have seated the entire nobility of Sanctuary; there was the caped figure seated at its farther end; and all around her she heard echoes that brought shivers to her spine, as of cantrips which had set the thick stone walls to ringing like a new-stuck bell. She stood as immobile as on that first occasion, this time not by con- straint, purely from her mingled fear and anger. "You failed!" she accused. Her words, themselves echoing along the monstrous room, drove away the fainter echoes. At long last Enas Yorl bestirred himself. A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 147 "No," he said in a thin voice. "I succeeded." "What?" Jarveena took a pace toward him. It seemed not to diminish the distance that separated them; in any case, she had no wish at this moment to be in his presence at all, let alone come closer. "Then why did Klikitagh brush past me without a sign of recognition—worse: shove me out of his way like a persistent streetwalker?" Recollections crowded in. "Besides, you said that if you did succeed, he'd die!" "Yes, so I did. Nonetheless . . ." As she stood striving to unriddle the mystery, he heaved a sigh. "Come hither. I'll explain." The hall and table contracted to more customary dimensions; in a twinkling she found herself where she had been at daybreak, seated in the same chair. Unseen hands, as ever, had set it behind her knees just as she was about to lose her self-control completely. Cautiously she returned her knife to its sheath, staring at the magician. But for the emberlike glow underneath his brows one could not have guessed this to be the same personage. His arms, in particular, were far too flexible. His? Might one not better say its? But the voice remained, and was uttering slow words, as though each syllable exacted agonizing effort. "I did succeed, Jarveena. At what cost I dare not say. Perhaps the cost of every shred of hope left in my inmost heart. I worked a rite such as has not been attempted in living memory—not, certainly, in mine , . . And worked it well." "With what result?" she whispered. "I learned the reason for the curse on Klikitagh." She waited. When she could bear the waiting no longer, she demanded. "Tell me'" "I shall not. This only will I say: His punishment is just." "I don't understand!" "Better you should not. Better that no one should. Had I known what a burden of knowledge I was taking on—no! Condemning myself to!—I'd never have set out to offer help." Guessing at the meaning behind the words, Jarveena bit her lip. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, and yet were welcome, for they disguised the ghastly form that Enas Yorl was melting into. "Here, then, in brief, is the secret Klikitagh has hidden from every- body in the world, himself included. "His punishment is just. He told me so." "It cannot be! No one could deserve that fate!" "Until today I would have said the same," Enas Yorl said solemnly, shifting on his chair as though his new form had grown unsuited to it. 148 AFTERMATH "But how can he have told you so?" Jarveena persisted. "I chose this of all days rather by enlightened guesswork than by proper knowledge. As it happened, I was right. On one day of the year, in the proper circumstances, he is able to remember why he deserves his curse." "Tell me! Tell me!" Jarveena pleaded. "Though you crept to me on hands and knees, bleeding in the extrem- ity of death, begging to be told before your final breath, I would not let description of such foulness pass my lips!" Not that, strictly speaking, it was lips he now must use to speak with . . . "Know only this: after committing it, he bethought himself of his crime and repented. Haunted by self-loathing, he became a court to try himself, and passed the only sentence that was fitting. He wanted so to suffer that no person who had heard about his evil deed, and might be tempted to emulate it, would fail to hear as well about its perpetrator's punishment and change his mind—not considering that the time might come when any such would be long dead and all his victims totally forgotten. Therefore he made the sentence cruel past conceiving—save by one who was evil to the fiber of his nerves. "He decreed that for all time he would believe, in total honesty and full conviction, that he'd done not a thing to warrant such a doom- Perhaps this affords some insight into the enormity of his misdeed." "But what can he have done?" Jarveena shouted. "You'll never guess. It isn't in your nature to imagine, let alone enact, so foul a crime." "Has it tainted you?" She leaned forward accusingly, glad that she could only vaguely see the shape he now endured. "Has it deformed your mind as much as your body?" That was cruel, too, in its way, but she uttered the words regardless. "Have you no mercy? Is not a thousand years enough for even the foulest of villains?" "Oh, yes." Enas Yorl's voice had become like the sough of wind in bare-branched trees. "More than enough, in my view. "Not in his." "You—you mean . . ." Jarveena's mouth was suddenly dry. "You mean you tried to release him from the curse he wished upon himself?" "I did." "And he refused to let you, being a more powerful magician?" "Not exactly." She threw her hands in the air. "For pity's sake, Enas Yorl! Whether or not you pitied him, pity me who calls you friend! Never in my life before A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 149 did I find anyone with better reason to hate the world than had I myself at nine years old! Make plain what you have done and not done!" "I will try . , ." The voice grew fainter all the time. "But words must strain to compass these events. The spells required are half outside the normal universe ... I did succeed! No other wizard now alive could have accomplished what Enas Yorl achieved today, not even he at Ilsig whom they call most skilled, not he at Ranke who ato-serves the court. "Jarveena: I gave Klikitagh his freedom." There was a long stunned silence. When it had become more than she could bear, Jarveena husked, "But you said it would have killed him!" "Which it did." "What?" "I speak in plain words, do I not? Despite the deformation I endure!" The tone was savage now, and sent new shivers down Jarveena's spine. "Well, maybe your nature fights acceptance. Words plainer then than ever must be tried. '7 gave him his release! He died! And even dead,- so dreadful is the power of that spell, he rose again and said—praise all the gods that no one save myself could hear those awful words!—'Dead or not dead, I am condemned to walk the world. I may not eat a second time from the same table, nor may I sleep a second time from the same bed. It is decreed. By me. It shall continue!'" From his recital of the quoted words rang forth a hint, an echo, of the force that had endowed the curse on Klikitagh with its original power. It was unbearable. Crying aloud, her brain assailed by hideous visions, Jarveena slumped fainting from her chair. In the light of torches, both her cheeks gleamed wet. She woke, once more at dawn, and found herself alone at Melilot's, as had often happened to her in the past. Not this time, however, was her frame pervaded by the truly magic skill of Enas Yorl's caresses. Only a dull sense of deprivation filled her mind as she kicked aside the covers and moved to use her chamber pot, then douse herself with the contents of the ewer on the nightstand. Then, unconcerned as ever about naked- ness, she dragged the curtains back and threw the shutters wide to the new day- Cold air combined with cold water to bring her back to full alertness. She reached for her clothes—and checked, catching sight of her reflec- tion in the tall and expensive mirror that hung beside the window. There was no trace of any scar upon her body. Not the faintest, lace- like, weblike hint beneath the skin could be discerned. She was as perfect 150 AFTERMATH as though no wire-lashed whip had ever whistled through the air to break blood from her tender flesh. Amazed, then astounded, she flicked back her forelock. Surely the cicatrix her forehead bore—? Gone as well "But I told him!" she said aloud. "I mean. I told Melilot, and he was listening! I said I wanted to keep that for when it came in useful . . ." The words died away. She let her hands fall to her sides. "Oh, you're in there, aren't you, Enas Yorl? You've sown a counterpart of yourself inside my brain! It's the same trick that taught me the names of your basilisks! Maybe you have too much on your mind to hear me at the moment, but I'm damned well going to treat your projection the same as I would yourself! Now answer me! Why did you take my forehead scar away before I gave you leave?" The reply came, not in speech, but in a sense of warm and private intercourse, reaching below the deepest level of her mind. If it resembled anything at all, it might be likened to the impact of hot spiced wine on a cold day. "Not me," said the mental duplicate of Enas Yorl in words that were not words. "Not by my intention, anyway. Listen, Jarveena, and remem- ber all your life! "Not to recall what he had done was for Klikitagh a mercy. I state this on the basis of what I have found out. To live with recollection of such horror . . . ! You must concede this." She nodded, participating in this nonexistent dialogue. "However, it became exacerbation of his punishment. It made his sen- tence unendurable. Indeed it was a mercy worse than none. He knew it, and condemned himself regardless." Again a nod, tinged this time with terror. "Yet you took pity on him!" "Yes, I did!"—defiantly. "And I still feel the same!" "You were the first to do so in a thousand years." For an instant she stood rigid. Then: "I can't have been!" "He told me so when I interrogated him, invoking a power greater than any god's. Not once, till he met you, had anyone felt pity for his plight." "Then I weep for our sick world!" Jarveena cried—and abruptly it was true. Tears that had so long been unfamiliar to her flowed as freely down her face as they had last night. "And well you may," the illusory Enas Yorl confirmed. There was a pause. A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE 151 "For you have worked a miracle." "I don't understand." Snuffling, fighting to regain control, Jarveena resumed the donning of her clothes. "How are your scars today?" "Why ask? You cleared them, didn't you? And took away the one I'd thought of keeping!" "Not I, Jarveena, but yourself." She froze in midmovement, bending to strap her boots. "Go forth, as soon as you are dressed, into the street. Do not ask why; you will at once find out. I worked a greater magic than I knew. For the moment, then: goodbye. Don't try to call on me until I send for you. The names I give my basilisks are daily changed. Sometimes I cannot give them names pronounceable by human tongues- That's why I have not spoken words to you this morning . . ." The contact faded in a garble of discomfort that left Jarveena imagin- ing for several seconds that she had four stomachs and a mouthful of regurgitated hay. The sensation passed. The laces of her jerkin still unfastened, she dashed down the slanting ladders that served this house for stairs and cuffed aside a sleepy apprentice who tried to stop her unbarring the main door on the grounds that Master Melilot was still asleep. Beyond, in the wan gray light of dawn, she saw a form upon the cobblestones, face turned aside, one arm outflung, chest smeared with blood still red thanks to the sharp cold: victim, presumably, of some chance robber's knife . . . "Klikitagh!" she whispered, dropping on one knee beside the ... corpse? It was indeed. No pulse was to be felt. A rime of frost had formed upon its hair, its beard, its hands , . . Slowly she straightened, gazing down in wonder. "So your journey ended here, in Sanctuary," she murmured. "Well, death was what you most desired. And . . ." A thought occurred, as wonderful as it was terrifying. "If I'm to believe what Enas Yorl asserts—and who but him should I believe in such a matter?—it follows that the worst crime in the history of the world has been committed. It was yours, my Klikitagh. And yours alone." It was going to snow any moment. The air was so cold, the lips she licked were numb. She half expected to taste ice. "But even you have reached the last stage of your pilgrimage in search of expiation. What now becomes of you will be no matter. Let your shroud be snow. Let dogs and thieves assail your body—you won't care. 152 AFTERMATH Perhaps you should have come to Sanctuary sooner. It cannot just have been because of meeting me that you were saved! I won't believe it!" So saying, she spun on her heel and marched back into the scripto- rium. Much relieved, the apprentice slammed and barred the door behind her. White flakes swirled down outside as she went to seek a breakfast of hot broth and dumplings. By nightfall—for such had been the will of Enas Yorl—she cared no more for Klikitagh save in the sense that all misfortune must be pitied, and he had been least fortunate of all. He lingered in her memory as myth and symbol; meantime she had a life to lead herself. "Mayhap," thought the wizard who sprawled across stone flags in guise but ill adapted to such human artifacts as chairs, "that snow en- shrouding Klikitagh, by his own verdict foulest villain of all time. will cover me in turn. Let it be soon!" Whereafter he composed himself to patient meditation, tinged with regret that for the duration of their present encounter he and Jarveena would be unable to make love. SEEING IS BELIEVING (BUT LOVE IS BLIND) Lynn Abbey Illyra awoke to the sound of an infant's crying and a sudden stiffening of the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She stayed that way, tense— almost cringing—until she heard the wet nurse shove her blankets aside, then stumble across the night-dark room. The crying changed to con- tented sucking sounds; Illyra closed her eyes and shrank back into Dubro's arms. He hugged her reflexively but the infant had not inter- rupted his sleep. Why should it? Children were women's work and this child was not even his. The S'danzo seeress matched her breathing to her husband's and waited for sleep to touch her again. She listened to the wet nurse tuck the infant back into her cradle and return to her own bed where she swiftly resumed her gentle snoring. Dubro's strong arms were no longer com- forting but had become an encircling trap from which she could not free herself—tangible symbols of the weight she had felt since summer when her half-brother, Walegrin, had appeared with the newbom girl-child in his arms. It had never seemed like a good idea. Three years ago Illyra had borne twins: a boy-child and a girl. Now they were both gone. The boy, Arton, had been taken from the mortal world. Caught up in the influence of the demigod, Gyskouras, he had sailed for the Bandaran Islands this past spring and if he returned at all, it would not be as her son, but as a wargod stranger. Worse, Lillis, her blue-eyed daughter had been hacked into pieces by ravening street gangs during the Plague Riots at about the same time. Illyra had tried to protect her daughter with her own body— with her own life—but fate had denied her sacrifice. There was a purple 154 AFTERMATH scar running across her belly but it went not nearly so deep as the scars mourning had left on her heart. She had nurtured her grief and had wanted nothing to do with living or joy. She had hated that squirming bundle Walegnn had thrust into her arms. Had wanted to dash its head against the doorposts because it lived and Lillis did not. But it had wrapped its fragile fingers around hers and stared into her eyes. And Illyra had Seen that this child would remain at her side. Strange how the S'danzo Sight worked. It rarely focused on the self, family, or loved ones but brought the abstract, the uncared-for, into clarity. Illyra did not love—would not allow herself to care for—this not- daughter they called Trevya and so the infant flashed constantly in her mind's eye where the Seeing visions grew. Had not Trevya's legs been crippled in the prolonged birthing that had claimed her blood-mother's life? Had not Illyra Seen, superimposed over every other vision she commanded, a construct of baleen and leather guiding the infant's soft bones into a healthy alignment? Had not Dubro made such a brace, following her precise instructions, and was not that twisted little leg already growing straighter as the Sight had foretold? Illyra had wrought a miracle for Trevya, who was not her daughter and whom she did not love. She had given Trevya freedom and built an unyielding trap for herself. Hot tears squeezed out from her eyes and puddled in the crook of Dubro's arm. The young woman who had once been a mother prayed that they would not awaken him and waited the long hours until dawn when she would be released. This not-daughter consumed more of Dubro and Illyra's time and money than their own children had, for they kept Trevya with them in the Bazaar rather than send her behind the fortress walls of the Aphrodi- sia House where working merchants often kept their precious children. So they had had to hire a wet nurse, a woman—scarcely more than a child herself—whose baby had been stillborn and who had come to live with them alongside Dubro's forge. But there wasn't enough room for them, Trevya and the waiflike Suyan, so they'd hired workmen to make their home larger. And, of course, Suyan must have food, and clothes, and medicine when she grew sick. Fortunately there was plenty of work to be had in Sanctuary these days. The new city walls were being made from cut and dressed stone; there were picks and mauls in need of constant repair and replacement. Dubro had both a journeyman and an apprentice working beside him at the forge these days, and he talked of building a larger furnace beyond the rising walls. Verily, a fortune could be made these days in Sanctuary, SEEING IS BELIEVING 155 but the pump needed priming and it seemed to Illyra that their coin hoard shrank rather than increased. She was half S'danzo, fully gifted with their preternatural clairvoyance but bereft of their tolerance for haphazard poverty. She was half Rankan, through her father's blood, and craved the material security that was the heritage of that empire's middle class. And, of course, her S'danzo Sight could offer no assurances to her Rankan anxieties. Even without Trevya, Illyra would have lost many a night's sleep this season. As it was, she balanced on the edge between dreaming and waking, and her thoughts spiraled far beyond her control. Trevya's face drifted toward her, like a leaf on the wind or driftwood with the tide. Illyra called her mind's eye back, but it did not come and the face grew into a full Seeing of a child running through a neat flower garden, arms out- stretched, silently laughing and singing a single word over and over again. Illyra cried out, breaking the thrall of the Seeing but not disturbing her husband who, in truth, was accustomed to her cries in the night. The seeress, still bound in Dubro's protection, stared into the night deter- mined now to remain fully awake. The vision would not be denied and inserted itself mto her thoughts, demanding interpretation. That was easy enough. If Trevya ran, then her legs grew straight and strong. If she ran through a garden, then she became a child in a place where beauty was an affordable luxury. If she sang as she ran, then she was happy. If that word was Mother . . . But no, Illyra would not acknowledge that part other Seeing—though it could have told her she would have the material security she craved. She preferred the loneliness other anxiety and clutched its darkness tight around her until slits of dawn light came through the shutters. Dubro stirred, freeing her as he did. The soul of routine and regularity, the smith rose with the first dawn light year around and had his forge ready when the sun peeked over the horizon. Usually the sight of his broad shoulders as they vanished beneath his worn leather tunic was enough to banish Illyra's night-bom doubts, but not today—nor did she share any aspect of her visions with him. She remained huddled in the bed until Suyan had the baby at her breast and even then Illyra gathered her brightly colored garments as if in a trance. "Feel you poorly?" Suyan asked with sincere concern. Illyra shook her head and laced a rose-colored bodice lightly over her own breasts. The girl's voice—her odd, but lilting, syntax—grated with extra harshness this morning, and Illyra was, without forethought, deter- mined to ignore her. 156 AFTERMATH "Herself cried but once in the night, though if that come at a bad time, it's enough to keep you waking until dawn?" Always a curl to her voice. Everything was a question that needed— no, demanded—an answer. But this time it would not work. "There's herbs left from Masha zil-Ineel—from Herself's congestion— that could be brewed up?" "I'm fine, Suyan," Illyra said at last. "I slept fine. The baby didn't bother me. You didn't bother me. And I don't need any herbs— just . . ." She inhaled a pause and wondered what she did need. "I'm going uptown today. What I need is a change of scenery." Suyan nodded. She did not know her mistress well enough to sense how little Illyra needed change of any kind—and would not have done any different if she had. Shunning her pots of kohl, Illyra brushed her hair into a thick chignon and wrapped a concealing, drab-colored shawl around her shoulders. She would never be mistaken for a woman who followed any of Sanctuary's fast-changing fashions but neither would she be taken for a S'danzo. "You'll be wanting breakfast?" Suyan asked from the comer, the lilt making her maternal and chastising. "No, no breakfast," Illyra replied, meeting the other woman's eyes for the first time, and watching them grow fragile with self-doubt. "I've got a craving for the little tarts Haakon sells; I'll get some on my way." Those huge eyes grew bright and knowledgeable. "Aye, cravings ..." Illyra found her fist clenching into a warding sign. Suyan had her own need for security, and security for a wet nurse was her mistress's preg- nancy. Not a day went by that somehow, buried in the lilting questions, the subject of Illyra's barrenness was not raised. As Illyra forced herself to relax, the unfaimess of it all swept over her and she knew if she remained one more moment she would dissolve into tears that would only make her world worse. "I'm going now," she muttered in a voice that sounded almost as bad as she felt. Dubro was instructing the new apprentice in the finer arts of squeezing the bellows. His voice was deep and even with hard-held patience; there was nothing to be gained by interrupting him so Illyra gripped her shawl against the chill harbor wind and hoped to slip away. "Madame . . . Madame Illyra. Seeress!" Illyra shrank against the walls, unable to pretend that she had not seen or could not hear the young woman racing through the market-day crowd. "Oh, wait, Seeress Illyra. Please wait!" SEEING IS BELIEVING 157 And she did, while the other woman caught her breath and pressed a filthy, battered copper coin into her hand. "Help me, please. I've got to find him. I've looked everywhere. You're my last hope. You've got to help me." Numbly Illyra nodded and retreated the few steps to the anteroom where she kept her cards and the other paraphernalia of the S'danzo trade. She could not refuse—though not because of the coin as the suvesh commonly believed. It was not payment that compelled the Sight but, sometimes, the contact of their flesh with her flesh. Already she was growing dizzy with the emergence of another reality. It would be a haz- ard to her if she attempted to deny the vision. She pushed the deck across the table as she half collapsed onto her stool. "Make three piles of them," she commanded; there was no time to shuffle them. The visitor's hand shook as she separated the deck- "Find my Jimny before it's too late!" Illyra swallowed the notion that it was already too late, then surren- dered herself to the emerging images: the Lance of Air, Seven of Ships, Five of Ores, reversed—the Whirlwind, the Warfleet and the Iron Key transformed into a lock. The lock wound through a chain and the chain grew from the belly of a dank, swaying ship—not an anchor chain, but a galley chain from keel to ankle, from ankle to wrist, from wrist to oar. The air reeked of drugged wine and echoed with a whip's crack. It was too late. Illyra Saw slaves' faces, one clearly, the rest wrapped in fog, and heard—as was the way with her gift—Jimny speak out his own name. She separated herself from the Seeing and sought words to blunt the despair her answer must contain. "Another card," she heard herself whisper. "Seek beneath the Whirl- wind." The suvesh, the ordinary non-S'danzo folk of the world, might not know any of the Seeing rituals but they knew the way things were sup- posed to go after they'd put their coin in a seeress's palm—and any deviation was certain to mean bad news. Illyra's visitor was sobbing openly as she reached for the first pile. Two—not one—cards slipped free: the light-and-dark tunnel of the Three of Flames and the dark-faced portrait of the Lord of the Earth. Illyra absorbed them both and grew no wiser. "He's been taken onto a boat," she said slowly, gathering the now lifeless chips of vellum into a single stack. "His leaving was not of his choosing," she continued, putting a high gloss over his enslavement be- fore adding, without much conviction, "nor will he choose the time or manner of his return." Illyra could not bring herself to say that the best 158 AFTERMATH Jimny would likely get out of his future was a grave under the soil rather than the waves. "Is there no hope? There must be something I can do. Something, anything. Which temple should I go to? Which gods should I pray to?" Illyra shook her head, then spoke as a woman rather than a seeress. "There is always hope—but hope doesn't come from a handful of S'danzo cards." Her visitor shuffled awkwardly to her feet. Illyra confirmed her suspi- cion that she was a few months shy of giving birth and poorer than Suyan had been when they'd found her. "Take back your coin." "Will it change things?" "No, but it will buy you today's food and tomorrow's, too." "I won't need food tomorrow," the girl shouted through her sobs as she ran from the room. But she will, Illyra thought, weighed down by the Sight of a pale woman and a scrawny child. There's no death for her. And no life either. The clanging of three hammers brought her out of her visions. Dubro was tapping the cadence and the other two were beating the red-hot iron. One of them had it right—tap, bang; tap, bang—but the other, probably the apprentice, was off the mark and stuttered against the metal. The forge reverberated with an unnatural rhythm that penetrated deep behind Illyra's weary eyes. "Can't you get it right!" Illyra snarled, thrusting head and shoulders through the anteroom drapes. The percussive chorus came to an immediate halt with an aghast look on the faces of the younger men and a knowing, concerned one on Dubro's. "Learning's not easy," her husband said cautiously, his blue eyes nar- rowed to unreadable slits. "What, then, is he learning? How to give me a headache?" Dubro nodded twice, once to his men who laid down their hammers and the second time to his wife as he approached her. He wrapped his arm gently around her and brought her into the anteroom beside him. Just as the forge was his true home—a place built to his scale and com- fort—so the scrying chamber was Illyra's true home and it made him seem an unwelcome giant scraping his head on the rafters, yet unable to sit, as the visitor's chair would not take his weight. " 'Lyra, I'll send them home, if you want, but I think it's not the hammering that's wrong. What ails you, 'Lyra?" Illyra on her scrying stool had taken command of the room. She would have had to arch her neck to see Dubro's face, but she had no intention of SEEING IS BELIEVING 159 meeting her husband's eyes. She spoke to the table instead, in a soft voice that emphasized the smith's awkwardness. Yet she was no more comfort- able than Dubro; her hands sought the scrying deck and her fingers rimed through the cards. "Everything and nothing, husband. I do not know what ails me—and I'm almost past caring." The cards broke free of her nervous fingers to scatter across the green cloth. Heaving a sigh as he moved, Dubro dropped to one knee; he could look into Illyra's eyes and force her to look into his. "Read the cards for me, then. Ask them what I must do to make you happy." Illyra avoided him, watching the cards as she gathered them into a rough-sided stack. "You know I cannot. I love you. I cannot See what I love." She raised her eyes, thinking to shame him but was herself shamed by what she read, without Sight, in his face. He doubted her love and, now that the notion flowed within her thoughts, he had a right to, because she doubted it as well. The worst pain Illyra had ever known shuddered along her spine. The cards spilled onto the table when she hid her face behind her hands. She never imagined Dubro would study and remember each image in the moment before he reached across the table to massage her neck and shoulders. "Had we rich relations or a hidden villa surrounded by lakes and trees, I'd send you away. It's Sanctuary herself who's hurt you," Dubro said with an eloquence few others knew he possessed. Illyra imagined the villa and recognized it from her predawn vision of Trevya. Fresh sobs came loose within her as she shook herself free of the villa and her husband. "What, then?" Dubro asked, a trifle less understanding. "I don't know. I don't know . . ." but then, though she still could not discern the nature of, much less the solution to, her problems, Illyra stumbled across something that could, under different circumstances, have accounted for her despair. At least to Dubro. "I woke this morning with a foreboding around me," she admitted, not yet lying but working herself up to the sort of half-truths she routinely fed her visitors. "I thought to escape, but that woman came and the foreboding became a Seeing. She wanted to know where her lover had gone and I found him—in chains in the belly of a ship somewhere. And though I only Saw his face clearly, I saw as well that he was not alone and that many men had been pressed into slavery." Dubro grew thoughtful, as she had known he would. Chains were made from iron, and Dubro knew every man in Sanctuary who knew that metal—in any of its forms—against his flesh. The blue eyes grew un- 160 AFTERMATH focused as he, like any other ungifted suvesh, ordered and made sense of his thoughts. Ulyra watched his pupils move as each mote of knowledge fell into place. Her sense of guilt lessened; she had tricked him into thinking about something else—but a good issue might yet come of it. She gath- ered her cards and wrapped them in a square of silk, never noting which ones had lain exposed. "This is something for your brother, Walegrin," Dubro decided with a firm nod of his head. "You tell him then. I'm going for a walk, maybe I'll find a garden somewhere. I don't want to go to the barracks." Dubro grunted and Illyra suppressed a sigh. A year ago, less even, and her husband would have gone into a rage at the mention of Walegrin's name. He had blamed all their misfortunes on her straw-haired brother. Now, since Walegrin had deposited Trevya in her arms, the commander was welcome in their house and the two men often spent the evening in a tavern. Dubro had even gone so far as to share the cost of posting the child to citizenship in the increasingly meaningless Rankan Empire. Illyra couldn't imagine conversation, let alone friendship, between the two taciturn men, had never really tried, then realized they talked about her. She had pushed them together with the wall she had built around herself. But the understanding brought no desire for reform. "Talk to him then. Maybe eat with him as well. I don't think I'll be back until after sundown." She straightened her shawl and eased past him to the door, never touching him, even with her skirts. The journeyman and the apprentice were gone. Trevya was squalling despite Suyan's best efforts to sing her quiet. None of it caught Illyra's heart. She was into the market-day crowd without a backward glance. There were perhaps two dozen S'danzo in Sanctuary, counting the female children. The men and the children moved unnoticed through the city—especially now that it had become the workplace of the empire with strangers still arriving each day. But the women, the seeresses true and false, put down their roots in the Bazaar and rarely left its confines. Illyra recognized many of the faces she passed, but none recognized hers. As free as she felt, she was also very much alone and shrinking with each step farther from the Bazaar and the forge. She was all but invisible when she reached the main gate of the palace. She was known here, and recognized, from the many visits she had made to her son when he lived in the royal nursery with the god-child, Gys- kouras. She was not greeted, as she passed into the interior corridors, for much the same reason. SEEING IS BELIEVING 161 There were others here who knew her, who mumbled a greeting with their eyes averted from hers as they picked up their pace to be gone from her shadow as quickly as possible. It was, perhaps, a great honor to be the mother of a godling. Certainly the slave-dancer who'd been the mother of the other child did well by her servants, suite, and jewels, but such motherhood did not inspire mortal friendship. In truth, though, Seylalha, with her lithe beauty, would have found her nest of luxury without Gyskouras's help and Illyra, confidante to half of Sanctuary, had never had any friends. Aside from Dubro and Walegrin, whose relationship to her was defined in ways other than friendship, there was only one to whom Illyra could bare her soul: Molin Torchholder. And it was a sorry state when a god- less S'danzo claimed counsel with a Rankan priest. At that moment, however, Illyra wore her isolation like armor and strode by the stairway that would have taken her to Molin's cluttered suite. She had her destination clearly in mind; a sheltered cloister that caught the sun without the chill wind. A place certain to have flowers even this late in the year. The little courtyard was empty—deserted for considerable time and given over to weeds. Two hardy roses held onto brown-edged blooms, their scent all the stronger for the frost that had doomed them. The rest was yellow-top, white lace, and, in the most sheltered comer, a patch of fiery demons-eyes. Illyra was grateful she had no allergies as she gathered an armful of the blooms and settled onto a sunlit stone bench to weave them into a garland. She'd learned the flower braiding in a vision once. Her mother had certainly never taught her, nor Dubro, nor Moonflower, who'd told her what she'd needed to know about womanhood and her gift. She'd learned other things as well: bits of song and poetry, snippets of lovemaking, tricks for killing with a knife or sword. She knew too much to be just one person—and she'd loved Lillis because she yearned to share herself with someone, anyone, who would understand. Trevya could never understand. The sun warmed her shoulders, finally loosening the knots that had been there since that late winter day when she'd last held a living daugh- ter of her own blood in her arms. Illyra turned her face upward, eyes closed, imagining an ageless Lillis: child, woman, and friend. She took that predawn vision and changed it until it was her own daughter and she could hear the laughter and the single word: mother, mother, mother . . . But the laughter, Illyra realized after a blissful moment, was real— echoing within the cloister—not in her imagination. She opened her eyes 162 AFTERMATH and gazed upon the passel of children who had invaded her retreat with their games. There were none that she recognized from her visits to the nursery—save that two were clearly Beysib. Both were girls and, by their apparent ages, immigrants like their parents. "It's your turn now!" "And no peeking!" The designated child, the younger of the Beysib pair, separated reluc- tantly from the group. Her arms and legs, which extended well beyond her fine but dirty and shapeless tunic, were still pudgy with baby fat; her gait was still flat-footed, after the manner of toddlers, rather than rolling. Her face pulled back into a near-bawling grimace as the distance between herself and the others increased but none of the children had as yet noticed Illyra sitting still and quiet on her bench. The little girl squared her shoulders and put her hands over her eyes. "Out loud. Count out loud, Cha-bos!" the other Beysib girl com- manded. "One . . . two . . . th'th-three . . ." By the count of four the other children had vanished, squealing and shouting and quickly dispersing through the tangle of rooms and hall- ways of their home. The little girl, Cha-bos, heard the silence and low- ered her hands from her tear-streaked face. She noticed Illyra for the first time. The nictating membrane that distinguished the exile community from the continental norm flicked over the child's amber eyes and she stared. Illyra, despite her best efforts, started backward just as reflexively. But Cha-bos was apparently immune to that gesture—or at least already able to conceal her own reactions. "I can't count to one hundred," Cha-bos declared, confident that she had explained everything, and Illyra learned that Beysibs could cry while they were staring. "Neither can I," Illyra admitted—not that she had ever had need to count so many things. Cha-bos wilted. What use was an adult who knew no more than she did? "It doesn't matter," she told herself and Illyra. "They don't want me to play anyway." Caught up in those huge, fixed eyes, Illyra Saw that Cha-bos was right. The older children had not continued with the simple game but were, even now, regrouping for a greater adventure. "I'm sorry. You'll grow up soon enough." "They won't ever grow down." Illyra felt herself squirming to get free of the child's endless eyes. She realized why the other gifted S'danzo women stayed so close to their SEEING IS BELIEVING 163 families—where familiarity, if not love, inhibited the curse of Sight and the scrying table turned vision into a cold business. She especially did not want to know that Cha-bos was no ordinary child—even for a Beysib— but the daughter of the Beysa Shupansea, and already her blood was laced with potent poison. "You can't have any friends, can you?" she blurted. Cha-bos went solemn and shook her head in a slow arc, but the mem- brane flicked back and she blinked. "Vanda. She takes care of me." Vanda was a name Illyra recognized from before. An Ilsigi girl who had somehow gotten herself made nursemaid to the polyglot menagerie of the palace nursery. Illyra had not seen her since Arton had been sent away and had, for no good reason, assumed the young woman had been swallowed back into the city. "Is Vanda still here?" "Course she's here. I need her." Cha-bos's faith in Vanda was as strong as her gut-level certainty that the world—in the proper order of things—revolved around her personal needs. She was willing to lead Illyra through the palatial maze to an interior chamber which by its chaotic condition and the size of its beds had to be the current location of the the nursery. Vanda sat with her needle and thread amid heaps of children's ravaged clothing. Her face glowed with genuine welcome when Cha-bos an- nounced herself but cooled and became mature when she saw Illyra. "It's been a long time," she explained, shaking the mending from her lap and bowing slightly—as was proper in the presence of one who was the mother of a potential god. "Fare you well?" Illyra nodded and was at a loss for words, wondering what she had hoped to accomplish by visiting. "Well enough," she stammered politely. Living with children had preserved some of Vanda's audacity and forth rightness. "What brings you here?" she asked, taking up the mend- ing again. Illyra felt her mind carom wildly from one mote of knowledge to the next. Vanda was the daughter of Gilla and Lalo the Limner. Gilla had watched as her children embarked on the journey of adulthood, and had buried one who had not at the same time Illyra's Lillis had been laid in her grave. Gilla had also nursed Illyra through the bleak weeks of their mutual mourning. Vanda would know what her mother knew, and Vanda knew children . . . "I have a child," Illyra began from somewhere deep in her heart. Surprise and suspicion flickered across Vanda's face. "Oh," she sighed as a calm mask formed over her features. "How fortunate for you." It was a voice to quiet the insane. 164 AFTERMATH The S'danzo couldn't help but feel the emotional distance Vanda hur- riedly created between them. But her despair was a throbbing, emotional aneurysm and, having finally found its voice, it would not be stilled. She described how Trevya had been literally dumped in her arms and how the child gave her no peace. She spoke of Trevya's twisted leg and the psychic intrusions that had led to the construction of the baleen splint which, though it was straightening her bones, chafed her skin and made her cry for hours at a time. Then Illyra told herself and Vanda about the changes that had come over Dubro since Trevya's arrival. Come over him and between them as if children were interchangeable and a woman's love flowed to any infant that squirmed in her arms. Not, of course, that it was just one child; there was also Suyan who was little more than a child herself. And the new apprentice who, though he still lived with his family in the town, ex- pected that she would care for him . . . about him. And through it all Vanda sat attentive and blank, polite, and growing more reserved with each syllable the S'danzo uttered. Until Cha-bos, who had gotten infinitely bored very early in Illyra's oration, inserted herself into their attention. The child had unearthed one other ti-cosa, the miniature version of the Beysib court costume, padded and embroidered so it bulked as much as Cha-bos herself. "Fix it!" she demanded as she began a run across the room. Ribbons trailed from the robe's seams and edges, imitating the poison- ous Beynit vipers that dwelt with the older female members of the Beysa's intimate family- "Cha-to-s-tu!" Vanda shouted the child's full name as the impending catastrophe came closer. Emerald and ruby silk serpentined around the child's legs. Cha-bos lurched forward, unaware at first that she was no longer in control other unbalanced burden. She shrieked as she tumbled forward, becoming a confused mass of cloth and child. The nursery was frozen and quiet when her motion ceased. For a moment Illyra and Vanda believed no harm had been done, then a wail of heartrending terror erupted from the tangled embroidery. Vanda reached her first, fairly shouting her reassurances as she sepa- rated Cha-bos from the cosa. A splinter as long as the child's finger protruded from her forearm. (The floors, this high up in the palace, were constructed of wooden planking that had seen better days.) Chabostu, second daughter of Shupansea and witness to all that had driven her mother into exile in Sanctuary, was transfixed by the sight of her own SEEING IS BELIEVING 165 blood. Her whole body stared in the rigid Beysib way; her only move- ment came during her spasmodic gasps between screams. Vanda could not relax the child's arm and when she yanked the splin- ter free the blood followed in bright red spurts. "Dear Shipri preserve me," the nursemaid intoned as Cha-bos's wide- open eyes went completely white. "Hold her!" The child was thrust into Illyra's unwilling arms as Vanda shouted for the palace guards and crawled toward the unmended clothing to tear a compress. Illyra rocked back on her heels and went almost as rigid as Cha-bos herself as the warm blood trickled along her fingers. This was no ordinary child—no ordinary blood. That was foul and potent venom gathering in the crevice between her thumb and forefinger. Illyra gulped, shuddered, and nearly fainted as the fluid streamed over her wrist and out of sight beneath her cuff. There was nothing she wanted to do more than heave the little girl across the room and get as far from her as mortally possible. But Vanda was back, ripping strips of cloth with her teeth, and the corridor resounded with approaching guards. Illyra could do nothing but contain her revulsion ^as Vanda tended the wound and Cha-bos twitched and shuddered in her arms. The nursery shimmered with surreal absurdity: what manner of contagion could pos- sibly take root in a child whose very blood was poison? Then the visions came. She was in the Beysib Empire, Seeing a nightmare world with a child's eyes. Giants stormed from living shadows with red-dripping steel in their hands. Cold, unyielding hands held her from behind and made the world go wild as they moved her from the familiar to the horrible. A face swam before her: a face half her mother and half hard, grimac- ing giant—and the other part, the part that was not her mother, was in control. But mostly there was blood as the last fortress loyal to Shupan- sea fell to their enemies and the noblest individuals of the empire scram- bled for their lives like lowiy peasants. Illyra, whose childish memory held scenes no less graphic, shared Chabostu's terror—and an unhealable outrage that not one of those gi- ants who habitually controlled her world took notice of her. Worse, her mother, Shupansea, seemed herself to have been reduced to gibbering. In the starkly judgmental mind of young Cha-bos, Shupansea had usurped the attention and comforting that belonged to her. Cha-bos was unable to comprehend this inversion of the universe and so had trans- formed it into something she could understand: She had never felt like this before and she'd never seen so much blood before, so blood must cause the feeling. Must lead to the feeling inevitably. And blood became the ultimate terror in her world. 166 AFTERMATH Vanda worked furiously to cleanse and conceal the child's wound, well aware of the child's progressive fears if not of their cause. Though the guards had been assured that the injury was neither serious nor the result of any malfeasance, they raised a racket in the nearby corridors—primar- ily designed to prove to Shupansea (who had also been summoned) that they were diligent in their duties. Illyra watched the commotion from a greater distance. She had freed herself from the child's visions, thereby insulating herself somewhat from her own fear of the poisonous fluids still staining her arm. She had wisely resisted returning completely to the world of the frantic nursery. The seeress remained detached from her surroundings until Shupansea crossed the threshold with Prince Kadakithis and a dozen courtiers in her wake. The Beysa dropped gracefully to her knees and attempted to take her daughter into her arms. Chabostu would have none of it and fought like a little demon to avoid her mother's attention. "Your Serenity . . . ?" Vanda interjected cautiously, cocking a finger ever so slightly to the bandage. Knowing what would happen if the wound bled again, Shupansea withdrew her arms. "It has been very difficult for her," she explained softly and quickly to Illyra, speaking like any mother who had been shamed or rejected by her offspring rather than as the de facto ruler of Sanctuary- Illyra, though she was the mother of a probable god, had no idea how to speak to one who was personally both goddess and queen. She cast a furtive glance toward Vanda whose nod, she assumed, meant she should treat Shupansea with the same calculated familiarity she accorded her paying visitors. "Children have their own minds," she said with a trace of a smile. The Beysa had the good manners, not to stare, but her pet viper chose that moment to rustle through her undergarments and poke its jewel- colored head above her collar. It tasted the air, revealing its crimson maw and ivory fangs, then, while the women held motionless, it lowered itself onto Illyra's sleeve. "Don't move," Shupansea cautioned unnecessarily. The immense NO remained imprisoned until the beymt investigated the clotted blood on Illyra's sleeve with its darting tongue. Any thoughts of instant death were insignificant compared to the reality of the serpent's touch. With a stifled gasp, Illyra propelled herself out of the circle, fling- ing the serpent and the child in opposite directions. Cha-bos cried, the snake disappeared, and Illyra was surrounded by a mixed cohort of palace guards. Rankan, Ilsigi, and Beysib by the look of SEEING IS BELIEVING 167 them. they were united by the steadiness with which they kept their well- sharpened spears pointed at her throat. The guards saw their duty; no one would blame them for not following procedure when the child of an avatar of one goddess was bounced on the floor by the mother of another. For once Sanctuary proved itself a place of law and due process. Not even the protests of the prince and the Beysa combined could free the S'danzo from the ordeal of reporting to the watch commander. "There's nothing to worry about," the prince assured Illyra as he joined the bristling circle escorting her from the nursery. (Shupansea remained behind, watching her daughter and looking for her snake.) "It's just a formality. Sign your name a few times and it will all be over." This brought little comfort to the seeress who signed her name with an X like almost everyone else in Sanctuary. It might have been different if Dubro had accompanied his wife—for he had begun life destined to be a scribe, not a blacksmith, and remem- bered what he now had little use for. Unfortunately Deibro wasn't even at the forge when a liveried palace servitor made his appearance there, and Suyan was awed into incoherence. Not that Dubro had told her where he was going when he banked the fire and lowered the leather awning that separated the entrance to his workplace from the entrance to Illyra's. He could hardly admit to him- self that he was going to the back wall where the other S'danzo seeresses made camp, to ask their advice. He thought of Moonflower and was not the only person in Sanctuary that day or any other to gently mourn her untimely death. She'd been barely taller than Illyra but in all other respects she was built on Dubro's scale and he'd felt comfortable around her. He reconsidered his whole plan as he entered the incense-rich, S'danzo quarter. He had decided to turn around and retreat to his own familiar world, when he was caught in the appraising glare of the woman who had replaced Moonflower as most indomitable among the seeresses. "Greetings, blacksmith," the tall stick of a woman called. "What brings you up here?" It was not done to walk away from the Termagant. She was the living embodiment of every tale ever whispered in the dark about the S'danzo. No sane man doubted that she would and could curse anything that crossed her path in the wrong light. Dubro crumpled the lower edge of his tunic in his fists and took a step in her direction. "I have a question to ask—about the cards." 168 AFTERMATH She looked him up and down, which took a moment or two, then pulled aside the curtain to her scrying room, "Then come, by all means, and ask it." The Termagant lived alone. No one dared ask or remember if she'd ever had a family. As far as the other S'danzo and all the rest of Sanctu- ary were concerned she had always been exactly as she was. An aura of timelessness hung over her—by gaudy S'danzo standards—austere cham- bers. Her wooden table was worn black and shiny from years of use. Her cards were tattered at the edges, their images both faded and stained. She was a seeress who let no one but herself touch the amashkiki: the cards, the Guideposts of Vision. They cascaded from one knobby hand to the other as she settled on her stool. "Tell me where to stop. Choose your first significance." Dubro thrust his hands, palms outward, between himself and the flit- tering paper. "No," he stammered. "I do not choose cards. Illyra chose them." The cascade came to an abrupt halt. "If she chose, what is your ques- tion?" she inquired, though surely she suspected the answer. "She cannot read for those she loves. She would not lay down the cards—but certain ones fell from her hands. I believe that she cannot read for us—but I do not believe she cannot choose." "For an overly large man, you are not without perception," the Terma- gant said between self-satisfied cackles. Dubro folded his hands and said nothing. "Very well, describe the cards you saw." "There were five. I've heard her name them Orb, Quicksilver, Acom, Ocean, and Emptiness." For ten or more years Dubro had stood outside Illyra's workroom, pointedly ignoring the wherewithal of her craft. Yet he had absorbed something despite the banging of his hammer. His eyes met hers and were not put off by the disbelief that grew there. "Prime cards each and all," he averred. Not to be outdone, the seeress set her own cards back in their silken nest with imperturbably steady hands. "1 don't suppose you noticed the relation of the cards one to another as they lay? Reversed or covering?'* "They/e// from her hands," he repeated. "I see." A lengthy pause between them. "Well, then, I suppose it's safe to assume the simplest message: all images erect and alone. It will be easiest that way. You do want the simplest interpretation, don't you?" Dubro nodded, unfazed by her sarcasm. They'd had dealings with this woman before. Her acid was as normal a part of her as a smile was to Illyra—or had been to Illyra. "I take it you know that among the amashkiki there are five families: SEEING IS BELIEVING 169 fire, ore, wood, water, and air, as correspond to the five elements from which the universe was made. Each family is led by its Prime and de- fended by its Lance. There are, of course, cards which do not fall into the families but they are of no concern here for you described only Prime cards. Every Prime card." Again Dubro nodded. He had known that. The amashkiki had been generally adapted by the larger society around the S'danzo, though only they preserved its arcane functions. A gaming hand showing five Primes was worth a heavy bet. "The Lances defend. They are rigid, sharp-edged, defined. The Primes, though, are the start of things." The gray-haired woman grinned. "And also the ends. Magicians like the Prime cards because they mean every- thing, you know. The appearance of a Prime simplifies the reading, she may have told you this; two Primes and it practically shouts. Five Primes is absurd—and you, blacksmith, I think, know that." This time he grunted, but it meant the same as a nod. "Perhaps she had just ordered the amashkiki and merely dropped the end cards?" "She'd just sent out a visitor. If I thought it were an accident, I'd not have come here." "Then you and she stand on the cusp. All has already been revealed to you. It wants only your feet upon the path." Dubro nodded to himself, letting her statements shore up his own convictions. The old S'danzo's eyes narrowed. At her age, Sight was a secondary gift. Her chiefmost asset was her long knowledge of mortal behavior. The Termagant could read as much in a gesture as the S'danzo Sight might have revealed in her cards. "If she waits much longer," the crusty woman admitted, "that path may well rise up to bite her feet. It is not to be denied." "But she will deny it, amoushka"—a S'danzo diminutive for grand- mother or elder seeress. "She sees Trevya wherever she turns, but her heart only grows harder." The Termagant snorted. "She is a little fool who should by now know what happens when children get tangled up in the Sight and fate." Even swollen with strong-backed workers from every comer of the empire, Sanctuary was still a small place where no one was by more than three or four degrees a stranger to anyone else. It took a determined insularity to live in rumorless ignorance; it was utterly impossible to live in privacy. The entire city had known about Illyra's first children and the Termagant was informed about her well-cared-for but unwelcome not- daughter. "The longer your wife denies what her Sight has shown her, the more 170 AFTERMATH inevitable it becomes, blacksmith. Glimpsed once, fate is a weak thing subject to change and uncertainty—especially for the young. But repeat- edly glimpsed and denied, as Illyra has done . . ." The Termagant shook her head and chortled softly to herself. "Ah, nothing in this life is acci- dental. Perhaps she knows what she's doing; not even Illyra is stronger than fate." The interview had come to an end. There was another visitor hovering beyond the curtained doorway. Dubro scrunched down to pass under the lintel- "Mind you," the old S'danzo added as the curtain slid across his back, "if you and yours are pawns in fate's game, you will not feel its hand upon your back." Dubro shook his head and kept moving. He was suvesh; he expected clear answers when he went to an oracle and he ignored the ones that weren't. Visiting the S'danzo quarter had been a long shot at best: a rare submission to the gambling urge. He was satisfied that he had not lost anything by the inquiry and was not unduly distressed that he went away no wiser than he'd arrived. It was about midday. The crowds were thick and his two assistants were gone for the day. He could go back to his forge and do a few hours of business in the old way—by himself—or he, like everyone else in his extended family, could take the rest of the day off. And, as it seemed a day for impulses, Dubro decided against the forge for once. He made his way through the town to the palace. Walegrin and his men had the first of three great watches these days, coming on duty in the cold, predawn hours, then relieved at just about this time. Even if the man hadn't been his brother-in-law, Dubro would have chosen him over the other two watch commanders, the eminently corruptible Aye-Gophlan or the murdering Zip, to tell about Illyra's visions. And lately, as Illyra suspected, they'd found a comfortable subject of conversation in their concerns for her. A hearty meal and a few mugs of ale in the all-male taproom of the Tinker's Knob might be just the cure for his own irksome malaise. The market-day crowds parted before him once his destination, the palace barracks, was fixed in his mind. "There, you see, I told you it was nothing," Prince Kadakithis said with rather too much surprise in his voice to be entirely convincing. Illyra nodded weakly. They might have at least warned her that her examiner would be none other than her own half-brother—and whatever other flaw Walegrin might have, his sense of family loyalty was above SEEING IS BELIEVING 171 reproach. He'd made it plain that it was reasonable to panic when one of those infernal snakes was around. "I'm certain the kitchens have got more than enough food. Shall I have the guards escort you there? I'd go myself, but . . ." The prince cast his eyes upward—in the general direction of not only the nursery but the Hall of Justice and Torchholder's suite of exchequer and registry. Neither husband nor ruler, yet somewhat more than a decorative figure- head, Kadakithis showed his adolescence more these days than he had seven years ago when he had first arrived as a naive puppet. He was growing but not yet grown. "Thank you, I can find it myself," Illyra assured him. He seemed genuinely relieved and took off at a decidedly unregal trot. Illyra had a flash vision of him seated on a steel-colored stallion, then nothing, as her thoughts turned to the aromas wafting out of the beehive- roofed kitchen. They'd recognize her there and accord her the same distant politeness the other palace retainers did: they knew they were better than some S'danzo wench from down in the Bazaar even if she did have the ear of royalty and the gods. With a tightly woven basket, worth more than the food it contained, slung in her shawl, Illyra strolled into the bright forecourt. She might wander along the General's Road to the hills where the trees had turned a hundred shades of red, gold, and orange. Or she might go to the Prom- ise of Heaven which was usually deserted by daylight. Or she might . . . Illyra's musings stopped short when she caught sight of a familiar figure passing under the West Gate. Dubro—and though she herself had told him to seek out Walegrin her heart began to pound. Once or twice— when she'd been a child and the blacksmith her protector, not her hus- band—she'd run away from him, but never in recent years. Until now. She scooted behind a water cart, crouching over her basket, pretending to examine its contents. She waited, cried, and thought of Cha-bos who hadn't known how to count to one hundred. When her tears had dried she decided it was safe. She headed in the direction she was now facing—to the back corner of the palace, past the ornate gate where priests and gods made their com- munion with temporal authority. The palace stoneyard was here, ready for the next round of palatial repairs, and the huge water cisterns to sustain the inner fortress in times of siege. Though far from lost—she could still see the water cart—Illyra had entered unfamiliar territory and did not know the name of the little gate she discovered there. Or even if it was a deliberate gate and not one of Molin Torchholder's bright ideas. It seemed, judging by the dust, to be the main conduit between the work gangs and the palace. 172 AFTERMATH "Hey, sweetheart, got anything in there for me?" a half-naked roustabout called from farther down the path. "No, just my own meal." "You're sure? A pretty little piece like you shouldn't be out here eating alone . . ." Illyra understood, then, what he had in mind. She blushed radiantly; he laughed heartily and she ran through the nameless gate into the jum- bled red sandstones piled beyond it. Indignation got the better other; she wished all manner of minor disasters upon the workman who had not recognized her as a happily married matron and implied propositions never suggested to a S'danzo seeress. She ate the creamy cheese without tasting it. The fire of her shame burned inwardly now, illuminating the misunderstanding with which the world treated her. It wasn't as if she asked for so much, Illyra reminded herself. It was pure selfishness and stubbornness that kept those who claimed to love her from understanding that her world—her promise of happiness—had ended when Lillis died. If they really loved her they would commiserate with her and cease their meaningless efforts to jolly her out of mourning. Her life was a tragedy: a slow dirge relentlessly playing between Lillis's death and her own. She'd become a martyr—and was comfortable with that identity. "You should not scowl so." Illyra sent the basket flying and stared into the sun, unable to recog- nize the man who spoke so familiarly to her. "And you should be more careful where and how you make your personal storms." Not about to be scolded by a stranger—or anyone else, for that matter —Illyra was tempted to break her private vows and launch a full-fledged S'danzo curse in his direction. But something she did not understand restrained her. She clambered down from her perch and gathered her scattered meal instead. From this angle, away from the sun, he was easier to see but no more recognizable. Not that there weren't a dozen incomprehensible languages spoken these days along the walls—but this one wasn't a stoneworker. Even Tempus, silhouetted by a bloody setting sun, was not so timeless and out of place as this man seemed to be. Moreover, she could not See him or his shadow which boded ill when Sanctuary itself was remarkably free of magic. "I'm a free woman,'* she said petulantly, climbing onto a different stone where the light was better and she could look straight into his eyes. "Not here you're not." SEEING IS BELIEVING 173 He was calm, not threatening; speaking simple facts as if there were something obvious she had overlooked. But what could be overlooked sitting on forgotten rubble with her back to the main path? "Look down," he suggested in a bemused and paternal manner. Down. The dirt was red where years of storms had had their way with the sandstone. Nothing grew there. Nothing was buried there. She couldn't See anything. "Where you're sitting. Where you've been sitting this past hour." Well, that. It was rubble, after all. These stones had been dressed and shaped into a building once, a long time ago. Not as if these were the only rocks around with little chips and bumps of some forgotten language on their sides. Lords and frogs, it could be Rankene for all she would know, wind-blasted as it was and illiterate as she was. She took a mean-tempered bite out of her fruit and jawed it pointedly. "So?" "Are you blind, child?" This stranger with his beaten, bronze-colored armor and his probing, dark eyes deserved nothing less than a S'danzo curse; Illyra decided. His stare was worse than a Beysib's and his high-and-mighty attitude worse than that. He'd be less arrogant when the S'danzo were through with him. She wrapped her thoughts in the ancient forms, then dug deep in her memory to find the ritual words that would merge her desire with the Sight. He sprang at her, though she prepared her curse in silence, and wres- tled her from the stone with his hand locked firmly over her mouth. "You fool," he exclaimed, dropping her to the ground. "You blind, hopeless fool. How many times has Sanctuary been damned by petty curses uttered in ignorance by petty fools who don't recognize sanctity when they see it?" Illyra swept the dust from her skirt as she stood. He was too sincere in his protests, too secure to challenge directly. "Who are you to scold me?" she muttered, watching the ground- "Who made you the guardian of Sanctuary? You're just another stranger come to work on the walls. It's my home and I'll send it to hell and back if I want to." "You're more the fool than I thought, Illyra the Seeress." "All right, I don't want to damn it to hell. I'd love to see a Sanctuary where flowers bloomed along the streets and honest people didn't have to hide after sundown. I'd love to see a Sanctuary where men loved their wives, wives loved their children, and children had a chance to grow up with food in their bellies. "Who wouldn't want Sanctuary like that? But Sanctuary's Sanctuary and it never changes." 174 AFTERMATH She raised her eyes to glower at him and to make him think better of whatever he had meant to say next "If you could bring yourself to take care of it, it might change into something better Maybe even something you could love " "That'd be the day Who are you, anyway9" "Call me a shepherd " Illyra cocked her head at him Whatever he was, the only sheep he saw were dead, cooked, and served to him on a platter Some errant warrior, more likely She noticed he'd left a horse drop-tied back on the path, and noticed that no one was coming or going on the path, either It was not really a good idea to argue with one whose saddle and weapon belt bristled with a dozen modes of death "All right, I give Sanctuary my blessing—" "From the rock " She seated herself on the first stone and made a show of clearing her throat "I give Sanctuary my blessing," she repeated A gust of wind carried dust into her eyes, that, and the back-lighting sun made it impos- sible to see him clearly "Let its people live m peace Let its governors rule wisely Let its walls be strong and its stewpots full. "There, is that more like it7" she demanded, squinting into the sun "You forgot love " "Right, husbands love wives, wives love children, children . . oh, children love whoever they want " "It's a start," the unlikely shepherd confirmed "Mighty trees and the like. Are you thirsty9" He unslung a wineskin and offered it to her Thinking he meant to embarrass her, Illyra took it Not that many townswomen could aim the bladder and catch the stream without covering themselves with wine She could She'd learned to drink from a skin—and not from a borrowed vision, either It was one of the very few things her father had taught her The wine wasn't half bad a bit tamnc, perhaps, but not local She caught a last drop and handed the skin back to him, smiling like a well-fed cat "Thank you," she said and noted with some satisfaction that she'd surprised him with her skill He tipped the wineskin up and maneuvered himself beneath it so his back was almost touching her and he, too, faced the sun Illyra couldn't imagine why he twisted around that way, when it was apt to make him miss his aim Wine spurted past his ear, landing on the red stone "Watch what you're doing," she snapped, hastily lifting her skirt out of the way as she spoke But he squeezed the skin again and left a goodly stain across the worn inscription before adjusting his arms and getting a decent mouthful of SEEING IS BELIEVING 175 wine Odd that a warrior, or a shepherd for that matter, would be so clumsy with the wine Hard, even, to believe it had been an accident— especially when she caught him looking back at her and grinning "Out of practice," he said, and she did not believe him at all "I'd best be leaving It's getting late I live Illyra hesitated and thought better of telling him where she lived, not that her heart believed it would help her if this stranger took it into his head to pay her and Dubro a visit. She slid carefully from the stone, avoiding him as much as the wine, and put the substantial remains of her lunch in the shawl-sling It seemed prudent to back away from the stone. He was still gnnmng when her heel touched the path, then he laughed and she shot through the gate. In truth it wasn't that late, barely past midaftemoon, and she hadn't intended to return to the Bazaar before sundown The day was still pleas- antly warm, and there wouldn't be many more like this until the next spring She might still wander along the General's Road and headed that way—back through the forecourt and along the Governor's Walk Haakon the vendor was prowling his afternoon route, singing a song of nutmeats and pastry. Despite the food she'd eaten and the food she ear- ned, they made her mouth water. "Copper bit," the vendor said when she started to approach him, then, when he finally recognized her, added in a much softer voice, "for two " Ulyra smiled and gave him the battered coin she'd received in the morning. Because she'd bought two, he wrapped the second one m a scrap of translucent parchment and tucked it into the folds of her shawl "Delicious," she confirmed, biting into the sweet and savory confec- tion "Best to share " He meant to share with Dubro but the face that came into her mind was Suyan She wondered if the wet nurse had ever even tasted one of these uptown luxuries Not likely Suyan claimed she had grown up Downwind, though Walegnn had found her in a Shambles house Illyra imagined the look on Suyan's face when she bit through the still-warm pastry shell to the nutmeats within She changed direction and hurried along the street to the Bazaar The forge was empty but before Illyra could become concerned she heard Trevya crying and ran the last little way "I brought you a pastry," she announced as she pushed through the curtain Suyan smiled but it was almost lost amid her unsuccessful efforts to quiet the infant "Here, I'll hold her They really taste best when they're warm " 176 AFTERMATH She picked the child up and found, not surprisingly, that she fit snugly into the crook of her arm and that she remembered how to rock her arms a bit and wiggle a finger or two as a distraction. And as Illyra's fingers were shiny with butter and nutmeats, Trevya found them fascinating. She pulled them into her mouth and sucked contentedly. Illyra felt the sharp ridge of the tooth that had caused this latest round of wailing. "She's getting her milk teeth." Suyan gulped a mouthful of pastry. "Not milk teeth, I'll warrant?" Another of her lilting questions, but this one came with a furtive smile, "Not milk teeth then. She'll soon be ready for gruel and a bit of por- ridge in the morning, I used to like to make porridge—especially in winter." The happiness in Suyan's face wavered. Illyra could almost see her thinking of where she'd been before they'd brought her to the forge. "We'll still need someone to take care of her. I'm S'danzo, not . . .'* Illyra hesitated, wondering why she'd been about to say she wasn't Trevya's mother. Neither was Suyan, for that matter. And other S'danzo women had children underfoot all the time. "Well, Trevya should have someone watching her all the time," she decided after a puzzling mo- ment. "It's dangerous here, with the forge. Not like some other places where the worst that could happen is a bumped knee." The tension left Suyan in a great sigh. She ate the rest other pastry but left the baby in Illyra's arms- They talked then, in the afternoon light, as they had never talked before, though not about anything of importance. They talked about the foods Dubro liked, and the ones he didn't; and the bolts of brightly colored cloth that had just arrived in a caravan from Croy; and whether the journeyman had a wife in his future. Illyra stole a look at the future, then shook her head. "I can't See a thing," she murmured and remembered what she had said out on the rock. For a heartbeat her blood went cold. He had tricked her. That strange man who was not a shepherd had tricked her into casting an unprecedented curse over Sanctuary: a S'danzo blessing. Not that there was such a thing as a S'danzo blessing. "Everyone's a child, one way or another—" "I didn't hear you?" Suyan leaned closer but Illyra did not repeat herself. She was, after all, only one S'danzo and Sanctuary was Sanctuary and not likely to change very much no matter what she did. But she would have to, if she ever saw him again, thank the shepherd for setting her free, at least. HOMECOMING Andrew Offutt Someone is always awake in Sanctuary especially when others are sleeping. —Universal absolute When she saw that he had wakened, she returned to the bed, mostly dressed but not quite. She bent down, exotically pale hair streaming long, to brush the top of his nose with her lips. "We fell asleep," she told him. "I've got to go! It's terribly late." Lazily, muzzily, he lifted a hand to try to capture a dangling lobe of her chest as she bent. She straightened swiftly with a little chuckle and finished closing her latch-front tunic. "Awww . . ." he began, lazy-muzzy, and the sound slid off into a yawn. She started for the door. He saw her pause, lift a hand to her temple, up under the newly silvered hair she had combed partially free of the tangles the two of them had put in it. She turned back. Moonlight admit- ted by the open window let him see that she was frowning. "My earrings," she murmured, hurrying back to the little table beside the bed. A moment later: "Darling? Didn't I put my earrings right here? They're—they're gone!" "Muss've dropped 'em on th' floor," he said without concern, and yawned again. Watching her, smiling a little, remembering. Watching her go to her 178 AFTERMATH knees beside the bed in her search was fun, and he entertained a little fantasy about that. "They're not here, Cusher! Please get up and help me. Could you light the lamp? Those are good eardrops!" Eight or nine minutes later the bedclothes were on the floor and they had even searched his abandoned clothing, lest her missing dangles of gold and jade and topaz had somehow gotten entangled in the attire he had hurriedly dropped to the floor, hours ago. By then she was sobbing and babbling about how the baubles had been gifts from her grand- mother, years and years ago. At last Imaya—the lady Imaya Rennsdaughter, if truth must be told— gave it up and left. By now fully as awake as she, Cusharlain latched the door after her. A better man would escort her home, he mused. Down to the street, at least. Absently scratching his thigh, he realized that he was still naked. He regarded his clothes, forlornly strewing the floor. Then, one eyebrow up, he looked at the window. Of course it was open, but after all! It wasn't as if this room was on the first floor! Naked, he padded to the window and looked out. He saw nothing; only other buildings and the dark alleys and streets among them; only Sanctuary, tired and snoozing in the moonlight. He looked down, then, down three flights, leaning out a bit with his hands on the sill, and then up. A little shiver ran over him and he ignored it. He twisted his head to cast thoughtful glances to either side. Cusharlain straightened, sighing. "Damn," he muttered aloud. This room was inaccessible save by the locked door, and it had still been locked when she'd thought to check it while he shook the bedsheet for the third time. He remembered the same as she did. After one of those pretty earrings had pricked his arm during their horizontal em- brace, she had removed them both. He had watched because he liked the way her bare breasts moved when she lifted her arms to her ears. He had seen her; she had laid them on the little table right there, just beside her side of the bed. And we made love, and drifted off, he mused, staring at the open win- dow. And while we were sleeping someone came in that window and took those earrings, not to mention what I chose not to tell her: the moneypouch sewn into my leggings! Except that no one in Sanctuary could possibly do such a thing. No one's good enough. One man was able; one man had both the climbing skill and the stealth to have accomplished this impossibility. He could have done it. but he's HOMECOMING 179 gone; left quite a while back. Over a year? Yes, by all the gods; well over a year ago. Nevertheless someone came in thai window and took her earrings and my purse, while we were right here sleeping! Damn! The little bastard's back in town! "I'm a carpenter, Spellmaster. Was." The man with the hound-dog face held up his hand to display its severely restricted use, especially to a carpenter. Strick showed the fellow a compassionate expression. All his recent weight loss accounted for the droopy aspect of his face; long-stretched skin still hung in the memory of former jowls and "plump" cheeks. "Wints told me before you came in that you are a better than good carpenter, Abohorr, and that you've recently lost fifty or so pounds. He did not say that you had also lost your thumb." "Want to hear how I lost it?" "No," Strick said, regarding the still upraised hand and its thumbless state. He knew of the occupational hazards of carpenters and woodcut- ters, and was not interested in particulars doubtless both gory and overlong in the telling. "That is, telling me would be of no value to either of us. And I have to tell you at once that I can't do a thing about that thumb, Abohorr." Abohorr heaved a big sigh. He nodded. "Figured that. The—the point is, Spellmaster ... I don't want to carpenter no more. Tired of it. I mean I was even afore this happent to m'thumb, I swear by Anen's beard I was. I know you have a lot of contacts and a real name for helping people, and so . . ." The formerly fat Maze-dweller waved that maimed hand while he looked sadly yet hopefully at the very big man behind the desk draped in rich blue. The man who had already made such a change in Sanctuary and its troubled, surely damned people. A foreigner with an odd accent, come here from up north somewhere! "My abilities don't extend to—to . . . hmm. I'm not sure what it is you want of me, Abohorr." Strick's pronunciation of "want" rhymed with "font" or his extreme shortening of the o in "lost." His visitor rose swiftly. Even standing, he maintained his deferential aspect, so that he didn't seem to be looking down upon the seated man in his plain blue tunic. "I'd do anything for you, Spellmaster. I'll pay you for yer time, too, 'f I'm wasting it. Just—well, just let me know if you hear of anything; a job I might fill. I'm big, and strong, and a damned good worker, Spellmaster. I'm used to a lot of work. You've got a lot of contacts and everybody's 180 AFTERMATH talkin' about all the people you've helped, Spellmaster- If you hear of anything . . . well, Wints—yer helper Wintsenay, I mean—knows where to find me." Strick nodded. "Wintsenay suggested that you come?" "I don't want to get him in no trouble ner nothing, Spellmaster. We was talking, an' he sort of did, just sort of." "Urn." The spellwright's expression did not change, which took effort. "Uh, well, anyhow, uh—what do I owe you, Spellmaster?" Strick showed his visitor a very small smile and a small shake of the big head that was covered to midforehead, midcheek on each side, and the base of his nape by the snug cap of leather dyed dark blue. No one had seen this man's bare head, or a sign of hair. They saw the cap, and the strangeness of deep blue tunic over matching leggings. Strange, and dull. The medallion, a plugged gold piece he always wore, did little to alleviate the severity of his attire. Oddly, the medallion nearly matched his large and droopy mustache. "I've done nothing for you, Abohorr. You owe me nothing. You're sure that you don't want to fight back and cope—to be the best one-thumbed carpenter Sanctuary ever saw or heard of? That I can help you with!" "I just don't want to go back to carpenterin', Spellmaster," the poor fellow said, and with several expressions of thanks and apologies, he left the office of the man from Firaqa. Strick waited a minute or so to allow him time to get down the steps and to the door of what he referred to as "my shop" before shouting, "Wints!" The man formerly described as "an overage street urchin" was much less than a minute in making an appearance. Wintsenay was a changed man, now, with good steady employment and the blue livery of Strick tiFiraqa. "Sir!" "You suggested to your friend Abohorr that he come see me," Strick said grimly, fixing the other man with a stem face and a pointing finger bigger than any of those of the carpenter or ex-carpenter who had just departed. "You know bloody well I can't do anything about a lost thumb, Wints! I wish you'd never learned my curse—that I have to help or try; can't not help to try, especially when I'm asked." Wintsenay started to expostulate, to deny. He broke that off and looked down at the nice carpet someone of wealth had recently presented his master. Like the medallion, it was another expression of gratitude for another of the white wizard's services. "I'm sorry, master. He's a good man, Ab is. Used to be so fat and strong and jolly all the time, you know. Now he looks like somebody's HOMECOMING 181 huntin* dog that's been run hard for a solid week of nights. He sure needs and deserves somebody's help." "You play tricks with me, sirrah Wintsenay, and so will you need somebody's help. Now get your treacherous butt out of here and take the rest of that ugly corpus with it." Wints understood the first part well enough, and acted on it. He was setting his slow brain to the working out of the rest of his master's meaning as he departed, touting at speed. Strick sighed, shook his head, and slapped an inordinately big hand down on the fine cloth covering his desk: a large piece of deep blue velvet that trailed gold tassels on the side facing the visitors' chair. After a moment he spoke, loudly but not shouting as before. "Avneh?" A girl in her teens bustled in, also in the distinctive blue of Croy: Strick's color. Former streetgirl, former hangerout at the low dive called Sly's Place, former alcoholic, former aspiring whore. Now she was recep- tionist and devoted servant of the man who had rescued her. Servant, as in acolyte of a god. He called her niece and enforced her calling him "uncle" in self-defense: the grateful teenager had wanted to give herself to him in every way. She had also just outgrown one tunic ofCroyite blue and had to have a new one to accommodate her steadily plumpening body. "What can I get you. Uncle StrieeEEEE!" She was staring past him when she broke off to emit that loud, pro- longed e sound- Her seated "uncle" astonished her by the speed with which he rose, pounced three feet sidewise, and whirled. An obscenely long knife had appeared in his hand. He and Avenestra stared at the intruder while the latter stared at the big man and the ready blade nearly as long as a sword. He was dark, lean and rangy at medium height. Jet black of hair and the eyebrows that almost met above a falcate nose. His eyes were nearly as black as his hair. He wore a plain green tunic, nicely tanned leather leggings, short buskins, and several knives. They included one that was a mate to Strick's outsized blade. Lifting his gaze to Strick's blue eyes, he elevated his arms a bit as well. "Mother Shipri have mercy. Hansel" Avenestra said. "Only you could have gotten in here 'thout being seen by Frax 'n' Wints 'n' me! But when did you get back in town? I thought maybe you was dead!" " 'Were' dead, Avenestra, damn it," Strick said without turning or looking at all away from the intruder, "and get out of here. Tell Frax and Wintsenay to be still, and hold visitors for a few minutes." 182 AFTERMATH "That's really Avenestra?" the intruder said a few seconds later. "She sure looks better'n she used to. Even working on getting fat' Yours?" "My 'niece,' assistant, and sometime cook, and that's all. I told Ahdio what you said: that you hadn't taken the red cat, but that it followed you, even out on the desert." "You've got a good memory, Strick of Firaqa." "Umm- Come on around to the proper side of the desk. Yes, I remem- bered to pass on to Ahdio the message you gave me when we met on the road to Firaqa, and I recognized you too—once Avenestra called you by name. I've heard it rather more than once since I came to Sanctuary. You aren't exactly unknown in this town." Wiry and youthful, walking almost catlike on the balls of his feet rather than the heels, the dark, youthful-looking man rounded the desk and stood beside the chair set there for clients; supplicants. "Neither are you, Strick. Didn't take you long to gain a reputation in my town. And that day in the forest I thought you were a weapon-man on the run! You came to help my town—so're you going to get rid of those fish-eyed snake-turds from oversea?" "Afraid not, Hanse. The Beys are here to stay." "Heard that. Sure going to take some getting used to. Is it true about you?" "How would I know?" Hanse came very close to smiling. "That you deal in white magic only—" "Yes." "That's a switch, in Sanctuary! And is it true that every blessing from you also comes with some sort of curse?" "Of sorts. The Price, in addition to the payment in coin or goods. Avenestra, for instance, no longer needs or wants to get drunk every night—but developed a rather grievous craving for sweets." "Which explains her new, uh, plumpness," Hanse said, nodding. "And you, Hanse. We met only briefly, long ago. Have you come here on business?" "No. Just wanted to say hello. I mean, we did meet, however briefly that day months and months ago, and gave each other a little informa- tion about Firaqa and Sanctuary—carefully." Hanse chuckled- "I remember that each of us was very wary indeed of the other, yes, that day on the road up in Maidenhead Wood. You had a young woman with you, I remember—and of course the singularly large cat. Red." Hanse nodded. "Aye. Name's Notable. First cat I ever hked. First cat I ever didn't dislike! As soon as I came here—" "From Firaqa?" HOMECOMING 183 "Uh, well, aye, along with a, uh, stopover along the way. As soon as I got here I went to Sly's. I left Notable with goodole Ahdio, who told me about you. Hearing a lot more about you from other people was easy. You responsible for this ridiculous silver hair so many people have bro- ken out in?" "I suppose." "Not the bare-jigglies fashion though, hmm? That came from the snake-eyed fish-faces." "Urn. You might try to stop calling them names, Hanse. Fact is fact, and the fact of their continuing presence in Sanctuary has to be ac- cepted." "I'll work on it," Hanse said without enthusiasm. "Lots of other changes since I left. Lots of construction work—reconstruction work. Noticed repairs to this building and the new paint job outside, too; really like blue, don't you! You were wearing mostly dust last time I saw you— first and last time. And liveried guards, too. Even Avenestra in matching blue. Pretty place, your 'shop.' Handsome cover on that table; handsome carpet, too." Strick continued to gaze at him from those large blue eyes above the droopy, yellowish-russet mustache. He shrugged. "I'm also hearing about mysterious disappearances in town, and ru- mors of slavers, operating right here in Sanctuary?" "A lot of people are trying to learn more about that, Hanse. It appears to be fact, aye. Be careful, should you chance to be out after dark." Hanse laughed aloud. After a few moments Strick's big mustache twitched in his small smile. "I'm sure I'd be interested in your impressions of Firaqa, Hanse, and how you fared there. But I do have some visitors waiting, downstairs." "You'll be interested in hearing a few things, all right." Hanse assured him. "Do these names mean much to you; Thuvarandis, and Corstic, and Arcala?" Strick blinked. Slowly, he sat. He gazed expectantly across his desk at the younger man. The names of those three men meant plenty to him, as Hanse had assumed. Briefly, he outlined his activities and adventures in Firaqa. He ended the abbreviated narrative with the ghastly happenings in the wizard's manse, and the outcome. Strick sat staring. "He is dead?" "Very." Strick slapped the blue-draped desk he called his worktable. "Dead! About time! You've rendered Firaqa a great service then, Hanse. That was a genuinely wicked man." 184 AFTERMATH "That," Hanse said in a voice dry as the desert, "I know." After a silent moment he said, "And you've rendered good service in Sanctuary, too. Just a pair of do-gooders to each other's towns, aren't we!" "Urn." Strick made muttering noises about having to go back and forth from his fancy villa every day, ending with "I'm a man of the people who'd rather live in town." "Why, I can help you with that," Hanse assured him, all wide-eyed. "Be happy to accept the villa as a gift, Strick." With a wry smile, Strick asked who owned the Vulgar Unicorn. At last Hanse let his wiry form slide down into the chair across the desk from the master of white spells. "Old Earrings' You've asked me something I know. Unless the place has changed hands since I left, the owner's the physician Nadeesh, on the Street of Goldsmiths. Can't miss him. He wears moonstones." Hanse held up two fingers. "Two. Earrings. Stones black as a tax collector's heart." "Nadeesh the physician," the big man repeated. "Thanks, Hanse. Oh —where are you staying? Hanse's expression became bland and blank, the business face of the thief called Shadowspawn. "I ... get around, Strick. If you should want me for anything, just leave word at the Vulgar U or at Sly's." Strick nodded. "Oh, and your young woman—I gave her my amu- let . . ." "Which served her, me, and Firaqa mighty well," Hanse assured him. "Let's, uh, talk about that some other time, all right? I have a young woman with me. Odd that you mentioned Old Earrings, or asked about him—I picked up a nice pair of earrings just last night, as a present for her. Silky. Well, actually her name is Vivispor, but who cares—just a girl I, uh, picked up in Suma." "You . . . 'picked ... up' ... a pair of earrings." "Right," Hanse said equably, and was hasty to cut off further com- ment or queries with "And I'm fresh out of a cat. You know, I really got accustomed to havin' that damned cat with me. I hate to admit it, but I already miss—oh, No!" For the second time within a half hour or so, Strick sat gazing at a person on the other side of his worktable who was staring past him in surprise unto shock. Since Hanse did not shriek or reach for one or more of his several weapons, however, Strick refrained from giving another demonstration of his swiftness and the fact that he was armed. Besides, this visitor soon announced its presence in its own voice; a very low and sweet voice at that: "mew." HOMECOMING 185 "Damn it. Notable, you sneaked out of Sly's and followed me again! Up the side of the building next door, even!" So that's how he accomplished his not-so-impossible surprise entry! "I'm sorry, Strick. C'mere, you dam' cat. He always makes that sick- eningly sweet li'l kitten sound when he hears aggravation in my voice and he thinks he deserves a tongue-lashing. Come . . . Here, Note . . . able!" "mew?" Strick sat very still while the red cat—unduly, unequivocally, and al- most unconscionably large—trotted tippy-toe past him and, an instant after Hanse said "No, Notable!" and started to duck, precipitately ap- peared on the lap of the seated young man's tunic. Hanse grunted and gave the spellwright an unusually, unconditionally, and decidedly un- wontedly subdued and guilty look. "I'm, uh, sorry, Strick." "It looks very much as if Notable has decided he is your cat, Hanse, not Ahdio's." "Aye, I know," Hanse said. His voice was sad, though .his face was not. "Once a cat makes up its mind . . ." "Alleged mind. Aye, I know. It's just that Ahdio's so damned big . . ." "Urn. Let's hope he's big about understanding, too. Hanse . . . listen, I need a favor. Two." "Uh." "Take Frax and Wints out and show them how you got in here. Tell them I want them to make any changes necessary to make sure no one can do it again." "Strick, I swear: no one else could." Strick sat staring at him in silence until Hanse had to exert his strength to keep from looking down. The expression of wide-eyed innocence that had long served him well with others didn't work with this man. This maker of spells was different. Strick was like . . . like no one. At last Hanse asked, "What's the second favor?" "Don't ever come in that way again." "Strick, I swear I won't." "Good. Thanks. Otherwise, Hanse, good to see you and thanks for the information about this Nadeesh. We must get together and talk again. After hours, and normally." "Uh." After a time Hanse said, "Damn! You just dismissed me, didn't you?" "I work days, Hanse. People are waiting." 186 AFTERMATH Hanse gazed at him, his mouth slowly widening. "Strick, you're really something! Let's go, Notable, you dam' cat." On the way out he saw that Strick hadn't exaggerated: two others sat in the downstairs waiting room. One had the look of a Rankan of sub- stance. Strick sure is doing well by doing good here, Hanse mused, and winked at the icily staring blue-uniformed man with the sword and dag- ger. Ex-palace guard, Hanse was sure. He recognized Wints, too, but pretended not to notice. A shaking sight, Wints decently dressed, shaved, and looking as if he knew who he was! A few steps down the street called Straight, Notable pacing at his side, he saw still another woman with silver hair. Strick had started this craze? Damn, why? A man never knows whether a woman's dyed, prematurely gray or extraordinarily well preserved! Avenestra ushered in a well-dressed Rankan noble. Strick swiftly learned that Noble Abadas was new in Sanctuary; he was cousin to Theron, the new emperor-by-his-own-hand. Noble Abadas was of medium height, perhaps ten pounds overweight, with receding light brown hair and reddish mustache, big ears, and stubby fingers. Superb eyes the color of doeskin met Strick's directly, which was impressive. Abadas was just arrived from Ranke with his daughter and, unusually, a single servant. He wanted a good place to live, he said, and planned to staff with Ilsigi; locals- Odd Rankan, Strick thought. Seems to be a liberal who wants to show what a good fellow a Rankan can be; particularly the . . . agent?—spy? —of the new emperor! "I have deposited funds with a local banker. You know Renn." Strick nodded. Renn was one of the two men he banked with, both Ilsigi. "He showed me around a bit," Abadas said. "I have to say that I saw two places I love, Spellmaster. One, a villa, turns out to be yours!" "Ah." By the time Noble Abadas departed Strick's place of business, the two foreigners to Sanctuary had made a business arrangement. Strick was happy to have leased the villa he bought from Izamel (since old Izamel and other wealthy, old-money Ilsigi kindly loaned him the money) to Abadas for an amount that was a shade more than Strick's loan pay- ments and taxes. The current inflation helped; Strick had recently bought the place at what were now called "old rates"; prereconstruction rates! Their deal made both men happy. Strick called in his man-of-all-tasks. HOMECOMING 187 "Wints, go to Cusharlain. Tell him I am looking for a large place in town, preferably a house I can also use as a shop. All right?" "Yes sir. Oh, are you—" "Good. Then go to Gilla Lalo'swife. Ask that good woman whether any of her children or relatives would like good employment with a decent Rankan noble. All right?" "Yes sir. Sir, I—" "Aye, I am sure that you know of some prospective servants for the household of the lord Abadas, Wints. Just go on about my business my way, for now." Wintsenay went. In the next hour Strick saw four people. He refused to do anything at all for the one who wanted vengeance on a landlord, used a minor spell and an unnecessary foul-tasting concoction to get rid of the really ugly warts on another's face, told a third sadly that he could do nothing about the long-twisted leg but secretly made a spell to make the poor woman more accepting, at least, and told a sufferer of persistently upset stomach that he needed to go to a physician, at once. It wasn't.as if anyone was gong to cure the rampant malignant growth Strick saw in the too-young man's upper intestine, but at least he could go through his final weeks of life in a drugged state. For all this the spellwright took in three pieces of silver and a nice bolt of cloth of a color he did not desire. Well, he could trade it, or use it as gift goods. Avenestra came in, chewing. "No one else is waiting, LJncie. I hung out the 'closed' sign as you said." "Good!" He rose and stretched. "Ooooh! What a beautiful bolt of cloth!" "You like that, Avneh?" "It's just beautiful. Uncle! I love paisley!" "Hmm. We may not be able to do anything about your craving for sweets, poor baby. But show me that you can come in here without chewing on something and we'll see what we can have made for you from this." "Oh I'm sorry, Uncle. Mother Shipri make me strong!" Strick patter her shoulder, turning a little sidewise to avoid being hugged (with hands one of which he saw was sticky from some pastry), and hurried downstairs to collect Fulcris. Leaving Avenestra "in charge" and Frax on guard, Strick and his other aide headed for the Street of Goldsmiths. 188 AFTERMATH Nadeesh the leech had heard of the foreign spellwright who had come here to be of such value to Sanctuary, both physically and psychologi- cally. His sad-looking servant ushered the visitors in to his master. Nadeesh the leech was a cadaverously thin man with hair that began at about the midpoint atop his skull and dangled stringily in long ugly strands of corpse-gray. He looked to be seventy or more. He also, Strick and Fulcris discovered, wore only one earring. Attired in a paradoxically bright tunic that appeared to be draped over mere bone, he sat weakly in a chamber made dim by drawn drapes. Strick saw at once that he was in bad shape, and not just from the healed wound that showed his left earring had been torn from him. The fellow looked far too old for his age, which he said was "about fifty." "What do you think is wrong with you, sir?" "Can't find a cause, sir. Just last night a friend—a fellow physician— suggested that it might be ... a spell," Strick saw the little shiver that went through this too-thin man as he spoke those words. Showing confidence and making sure to project it, Strick suggested that he look. Nadeesh agreed, nervously. "What—what do you need to do?" "I need for you to give me something of value, and then just lie back and try hard not to think of anything at all. I will have my hands on your shoulders, that's all." The physician snorted. "Only the gods know how many patients I've said that to—and all of us knowing all the while that it's completely impossible!" With a little smile, Strick accepted the proffered coin and set his hands on shoulders that might have been mere bone covered by the other man's yellow tunic- The Firaqi wizard was quite able to stare at nothing. It took him only seconds to discover the cause of Nadeesh's malaise. "Your friend was right, leech. Someone has set a dark spell on you." Nadeesh moaned. "Hmm. And left a barrier. Perhaps you would think of an opening gate, opening doors, a cave with a wide open mouth ... no no, please be still but not stiff . . . hmm." A little work discovered the impossible: the spell came from a dead man. One Marype, the son of a mage named Mizraith and long appren- ticed to a shadowy mage name Markmor. The problem was that every- one knew Marype was dead! Except that this spell is not that old. Marype is vehemently alive! Furthermore he's past the apprentice stage—past jour- neyman, by the Flame! Strick concentrated, began to sweat . . . and soon realized that the severity of Nadeesh's affliction was because Marype had gained possession of something belonging to the physician. HOMECOMING 189 "Ah, the earring, and thus a bit of blood!" "Wh-what?" The wizened physician's voice quavered. Strick released those frighteningly bony shoulders and sat beside the man who looked far too old for the age he claimed. The spellmaker would have bet that before this malignant spell the physician had looked fifteen years younger. "How did you lose your earring?" "Late one night about two months ago I was set upon by footpads and —by the gods! This began about then! I have lost very much weight in these past two months, Strick, and of course strength as well." "Urn. Those were not footpads, Nadeesh, but men hired for a definite assignment. A dark mage who hates you used them to gain possession not only of your earring but, since it was torn from your ear, a bit of your blood as well. It has enabled him to make a powerful spel! indeed.'* "How do you know this?" "Do you answer your patients when they ask you such a question?" "No. And usually I cannot answer this one; What is to happen to me?" "You already know. You are wasting away; no one would know that it's the result of an inimical spell. I'd say this sorcerer intends your death." Nadeesh surprised his visitor with a string of words concerning the unnamed mage, his sexual activities, and his mother. Then: "Who is it? Who has done this, Spellmaster?" "That I cannot say," Strick said, as perfectly capable of lying when he deemed it wise as any physician. "What mage hates you so much?" "None! I mean—I've no idea." "You've never treated a sorcerer?" "Not knowingly." "Urn. In that case, have you refused treatment to a sorcerer?" "Not knowingly," Nadeesh repeated. After a few seconds he added, "But now one is going to murder me." "Is murdering you," Strick said, staring at nothing. "Unless we can do something about it." Nadeesh lurch up, gasping with effort. "You think you can?" "One can always try. In this case, one must." "I don't understand." "Never mind. You are too good a man to be murdered this way with- out my trying to stop it." A long sigh escaped the pitifully wizened man, and Strick heard the rattle in his scrawny throat. "Bearing in mind that I am a spellwright, not a physician, let us dis- cuss the bill in advance." 190 AFTERMATH Nadeesh's smile was hideous, but genuine. "You certainly have me, sir. Name the price and I shall agree. Understand that if the patient dies, however, he cannot pay." Despite the gravity of the complaint of his "patient," Strick laughed aloud. They discussed his bill. Hanse noted more construction/reconstruction on his way to pay a visit to Mignureal's widowed father. It was not something Hanse wanted to do. He had loved Moonflower, Mignue's gross diviner of a mother; he was able to admit that to himself, now. Ahdio and a couple of others at Sly's Place last night had already observed that the dark, youthful man called Shadowspawn was "different." They were right. Events on the desert and up in Maidenhead Wood had changed him a bit; the Mignureal experience had enforced responsibility and changed him ac- cordingly; the constant dark shadow of sorcery and ghastly events in Firaqa had changed and matured him; and so had more recent experi- ences in Suma. The presence of the outsized red cat strolling along at his side, tail high, attracted plenty of looks. Hanse's eyes and the presence of so many sharp blades worn openly here and there about his person persuaded people to keep their comments to themselves or low-voiced. Once he did hear a scornful laugh and knew it for a deliberate attempt at provocation. He didn't even turn. Shadowspawn was "different," yes. At the shop where Mignureal's father Teretaff sold this and that . - . item, he was admitted by one of Mignureal's dark-haired and dark-eyed younger sisters. Since their number was several and Hanse had never been interested in children, he wasn't sure of this one's name. Odd, how she had bloomed in so short a time. Girls had a way of doing that, and the S'danzo did seem to bloom earlier than others. He entered into warmth made heavy by a fragrant mix of odors, aro- mas, smells, scents of foods and leather and spices and perfumes and other herbal . . . things. The shop had always been cluttered. It was more so now, with Moonflower dead. "Does your father have a, uh, woman friend?" he asked, feeling sneaky, and was not displeased by the shaking of a large-eyed head. What was this girl, about thirteen? That meant that the next one—the boy Cormentaff—was fourteen. Another member of the family was pushing sixteen too, as he recalled. The one with red hair, or almost red. What was her name, anyhow? This one made girlish noises over Notable, who eluded her attempts to pet him. The cat disappeared behind a counter. HOMECOMING 191 "He, uh, he's a one-man cat," Hanse explained. "Notable, if you knock anything over or get into anything it will go hard with you!" "Mraow." Hanse was not happy to discover that Teretaff already had a visitor. The aged S'danzo "chief" with the implacable eyes and straight mouth and the usual multicolored, modestly cut garb barely acknowledged Hanse's presence. Hanse was determinedly respectful. The Termagant was not visiting Teretaff, he realized; she was interested in the almost- sixteen-year-old. Now both stared at Hanse, Jileel from huge round eyes the color of walnut wood flanked by a great deal of hair the color of a roan horse. Her blouse was striped yellow and green and was unaccount- ably stuffed; under a multiprint apron, her skirts showed six or nine other colors and hues. "You left here with my daughter," Teretaff said, but it was a question rather than an accusation. "Precipitately," the Termagant said, straight-mouthed and flat-eyed. Suddenly Hanse has to tell them, no matter the consequences: "Yes. When I found Moonflower I went wild. I started running, ran into a fish —a, un, Beysib, and killed it. Her. I think it was the one who ki— who . . ." "Oh, I do hope it was!" the almost-sixteen-year-old said ferociously, in a rather throaty voice. "Jileel!" the Termagant snapped, inadvertently helping Hanse by pro- viding the girl's name. Teretaff glanced at her, and back to Hanse. "I hope so too, Hanse. She did like you, my wife." Hanse was surprised to hear himself say, "I loved her, Teretaff." All three of the others blinked. At last the old woman said, "You have changed, young man." Hanse nodded. "We endured much. We even accomplished much, up in Firaqa." "Firaqa?" "A city far north. Strange people with a strange religion. Ruled by a sort of council of sorcerers. The chief was also the most evil and I sup- pose the most powerful. He's dead, now. Teretaff, Termagant . . . Mignureal's powers soared, in Firaqa. She was glad to find a small colony of S'danzo. They were unwelcome in Firaqa; S'danzo, I mean. That's no longer true. She . . . Mignureal has remained there, Teretaff. She's an accomplished Seer, now, an amoushem. Did I say that right?" "Yes!" the Termagant said, astonishing Hanse by the sudden happy light in her eyes. "So! She flowered, then, and is respected, with the Ability." 192 AFTERMATH "Yes. She Sees, Termagant, Teretaff; Mignue Sees beyond anyone else in Firaqa." "She will do well there, then," Teretaff said, with some happiness and pride mingled with sadness. Tears had appeared in the walnut eyes of the girl beside the old woman, to hear that her sister was not coming back. "But—you are here and she there?" Hanse nodded. "It was not easy. Oh, we had our troubles—probably mainly because we were under the shadow of sorcery all the time. But I think we will always love each other. It's just that I had to come back, and she felt she had to remain there. She is happy there. Established." "I am glad for her," Jileel said but her voice quavered and she sniffed. '7am delighted'" the Termagant said, and again she astonished Hanse, by proving that grim mouth could smile. Hanse wondered whether Teretaff might have been less equable about this news had the Termagant not been present, and so enthusiastic. Al- most he wished that Jileel were not present. She kept staring at him, staring with those huge dark brown eyes. She always had, he remem- bered, when he had come to see Moonflower and then Mignureal, but now it seemed different. She was older, with the cusp of womanhood newly sealed upon her. And . . . could that be she in there, rather than the family laundry or a couple of smuggled melons, making her blouse stand out and strain so? Mignureal had not been constructed so! Of course her mother had been, but Moonflower had been huge everywhere, a truly obese woman whose size had made walking difficult for her. (She also remained the most beautiful woman Hanse had ever known. It was she who taught him, just by being, that beauty was not something a person wore, like clothing or skin, but was inside; it was something a person was.) He produced the bag and handed it to a surprised Teretaff. It jingled. "From Mignureal," Hanse told him. "From Mignureal?" Now it was TeretaflPs eyes that glistened wetly. Hanse pretended not to notice. He nodded. "She insisted. She is doing well. That is for you and her sisters and brother, she said. It is, uh, considerable Firaqi gold, Teretaff. Gold because that way 1 had fewer coins to carry. Be sure to go to a decent bank to get a fair exchange on those flame-marked coins, now." Teretaff smiled, then laughed, and embarrassed himself when laughter became sobs. In manner womanly, his daughter Jileel went to embrace him- Uncomfortable, Hanse began backing. "I have to go now." He swallowed. "Got an appointment, you know." "Young man." Hanse swallowed again. "Name's Hanse, ma'am." HOMECOMING 193 "Hanse, then. And I am called the Termagant. You know that I am the senior amoushem; first among the S'danzo with the Ability. Moonflower liked you. I know, and Mignureal . . . well. I admit that I never had much—I never had any use for you. That has changed. You may consider me friend. Hanse. Still again Hanse swallowed. It was his way not to act honored, but he could not escape the feeling that this was like being acknowledged friend by the Prince-Governor, as he had been. Suddenly his stance changed, and his grin was the old cocky one. "My occupation hasn't changed. Termagant." She blinked. "I do not hear you. A friend entrusted a bag of money to you for her father, and you brought it this long way." Damn! "Uh . . . well, that's different. You won't tell anyone, will you?" "What?" Hanse shrugged. "I've got my reputation to think of." "But young ma— Hanse, it is a bad reputation!" Hanse nodded. "It's mine, Termagant." Between the old woman and her father, with her arm around him, Jileel giggled. The Termagant shook her head. "I, however, have spoken. You are to consider me friend, Hanse." "I'll remember. I have to go now." As he left, he heard the Termagant's voice: "Very well now, Jileel, let's test you again to see if that really was the Sight . . ." Hanse hurried on, clucking to Notable, thinking of the considerable amount of money he had secretly left with that banker in Firaqa for Mignue, dear Mignue ... He found a decent place to live, in Red Court in the Maze, and de- lighted the proprietor by laying down a few coins in advance. Silky the ever supple and ever ready was for testing the bed; this soon after leaving Mignureal's family, Hanse just couldn't. He also couldn't admit that. He pointed out the need to find her employment, and they wandered. Some- time that afternoon he realized that he had no intention of living with the tan-haired girl he and his loneliness had acquired up in Suma. All right, he could handle that; he was not stuck with her and besides she was obviously not charmed with the Maze, Hanse's natural habitat. He did succumb to Silky's importunings to buy a melon. As he cut it, he noticed that the wooden handle of his favorite knife was loose. "Damn!" Next he noticed that she was talking animatedly with another of the 194 AFTERMATH pedlar's customers, a Rankan. Good, he thought, and without any com- punctions at all he walked away. Silky wasjust Silky, a passing fancy, but a defective knife was serious business. Using this cut-through and that, he was soon on the Street of Tanners. Three blocks down from Sly's Place was Zandulas's Tannery; one had only to follow one's nose to find it and the busy establishment of Zandulas's next door neighbor, Cholly. Cholly the Gluemaker was the man to see. Oh, his real name was Chollander, but only his wife called him that. Cholly performed a number of impor- tant services for Sanctuary, including the making of glue. In a town where bodies tended to appear with the morning sun and tended never to be claimed by anyone, a man who had use for them and thus rendered a free corpse-collection service was valuable. Come to think, "rendered" was the right word for the main part of Cholly's activities. The bear-sized man with the barrel belly greeted Hanse heartily and with surprise. "Why haven't I seen you for so long, Hanse? Must be a year or more." Cholly was alone in his smelly, cluttered place of business, meaning that his two assistants were out on this errand or that. Taking orders for delivering glue, probably, or the ancillary products of Cholly's trade. Selling jewelry, perhaps, or slightly used clothing. A bone or two, maybe. Or nice long hair, perhaps, to make nice wigs. Briefly and without much patience, Hanse told Cholly where he had been. "I had no idea, Hanse' Oh—I guess you left before that sexy Rankan gladiator came to town, didn't you?" "How can a gladiator be s— oh. You mean Chenaya Nutcracker? We, uh, met, Cholly." "Oh? Surprised you don't grin when you say that, Shadowspawn. Surely Milady Swagger either insulted you, tried to kill you, or bedded you. Or all three." Hanse clamped his teeth. "She bedded me, Cholly. That's the way it was, too—she collected me. took me home, and bedded me. She's good- looking and she's cat-supple, I'll give her that. Bed is another matter. I didn't enjoy it with her and we will not be doing it again. I prefer women." Cholly saw the expression and heard the tone. Considerately and wisely, he nodded and said nothing at all. Then his visitor laid the wounded knife on his counter and the huge man shifted to his business demeanor. He picked it up in a big meaty hand, examined it, said "hmm" twice, and shrugged. "Easily fixed, Hanse. Let's just make repairing this a welcome-home gift," Cholly said, already starting to work. "We'll use dry-tack. It's a HOMECOMING 195 special sort of glue I made up; sticks by pressure." He grunted softly; a man the size of Chollander the Gluemaker seldom found tasks large enough to require large grunts. "There. Now we apply the dry-tack wet, so, and allow it to dry. We don't have to wait long. I remember this old knife from years back. A really superior blade! Oh—you, ah, pick up any new knives up in Furakka?" Hanse showed him a couple, knowing this lover of knives would con- sider both of them exotic because they were of foreign manufacture. "The really fancy one was a gift from the head mage up in Firaqa, a man named Arcala." "Hmp! Never knew you to stay around a mage long enough to receive a gift! Hard to imagine, from a fellow who hates sorcery worse than anybody!" Cholly said, admiring it and the other knife Hanse handed him, a normal enough sticker. He examined both with the respect and care of a man who knew knives. "Nice," he said, laying them down. "Here, look at this pretty thing while I finish the job on your old knife." He placed in Hanse's hand a dagger whose blade was inlaid with silver. Sensing trade negotiations, Hanse naturally found it necessary to de- mean the seeming treasure. "Uh. Pretty," he said casually. "I'll bet this fancy inlay weakens the blade, though." Sensing an impending trade, Cholly snorted and made a chuckling noise to show Hanse how silly that was. It was also subject-changing time: "Ah yes, this is good now, Hanse- Dry-tack's a really good bonder. I'm proud of it. It won't stick to slippery surfaces, see, like wax or grease. Or soap. On the other hand it's easy to peel it off smooth, polished surfaces." "In that case how can it be strong enough for a knife I need to trust?" "I said 'peel' it off, Hanse. Pulling it off, breaking the bond—that's another matter. Believe me, I could glue a handle onto a horse's back and lift him by it. If I could lift a horse, I mean. It's strong." That triggered a thought, but Hanse was careful to sound casual when he asked how one got the stuff off. Cholly gestured. "Oh, I have a remover for it! Had to come up with that!" "Uh. I guess," Hanse said, and decided it was time to swing back to the potential trade: "How strong d'you think this silvered blade is?" "It's a dagger, Hanse. I mean, it isn't as if you're going to try throwing it or chopping trees, is it?" The ritual of leading up to a transaction had begun. The dickering had to come first, of course, and the deliberate dropping of the subject for friendly converse before returning to another offer or "suggestion" of offer. This time the process took only fifteen or eighteen minutes. When 196 AFTERMATH Hanse left, Cholly had both Firaqi knives in exchange for the inlaid dagger and a pot of the dry-tack Hanse called "Cholly's Dry Stickum." The gluemaker threw in the remover as a courtesy. Their deal made both men happy- Hanse returned to the area where he had left Silky. The melon pedlar had gone on, and apparently so had Silky. A little asking around apprised him that the tan-haired Sumese girl had departed, with that blond Rankan. While Hanse's pride was wounded a bit, he was not unhappy. He did seem to be stuck with the big red cat. By that evening he had left Notable with Ahdio twice. The moment a door was opened. Notable hastened to use it and seek out Hanse. "All right, you damn' cat, let's go home and drop off my new pot of glue! You'll need to sniff out the place anyhow." Notable swerved sharply to bang his flank into Hanse's leg. "Maowr!" "No." "mew?" "No, damn it. Notable, we will not stop and get you a beer now!" Strick's rule was that people came to him; he went to no one. For this interview he had long wanted, however, he would have gone to the pal- ace. Prince-Governor Kadakithis would not hear of it. Instead, secretly, in disguise and terribly early on a Fourday morning as agreed for his convenience and security, he arrived in Strick's "shop." In this absolute privacy and confidence, the handsome young Rankan of about Hanse's age and size astonished Strick; he admitted that he was less than he wished to be and had decided that it was because he was too indecisive; fearful of what the Ilsigi would think of him. "The young half-brother of the emperor," he said quietly, tapping his chest while studiously not-looking at the spellwright, "always had to be careful not to offend or even be very visible, you see. Abakithis—the emperor—was that sort of man. In time, though, he decided that I wasn't invisible enough. He shipped me out here. The goal was not to do any- thing for Sanctuary or for me, but to get me out of Ranke!" Kadakithis sighed. "So, I felt the need to prove something, to do well. Trying too terribly hard, I was overzealous in trying to clean up this town. In taxing the Red Lantern Houses and . . . other things." Strick sat very still. He said absolutely nothing and more, he made no sound. Embarrassedly looking at the wall to his right, Kadakithis went on in that sadly quiet voice: "This morning Lord Abadas, the new emperor's HOMECOMING 197 cousin, visited to present himself formally. I disgusted me. I was posi- tively ingratiating." After a time he turned his head to look at Strick from pale blue eyes. "Your efforts and actions were understandable," Strick said just as quietly. "And with Lord Abadas as well. The man is surely here to keep an eye on you for his cousin, isn't he. After all, you're half-brother to . . . Emperor Theron's predecessor in the imperial chair." Kadakithis shook his head. "No, Strick; I have come to like this town, both from sympathy and feeling a part of it. If I'm to amount to anyth— if I'm to help these people in anything approaching the way you have, I'll need . . ." The Prince-Governor broke off in embarrassment. Strick didn't need to hear the words. "I like Sanctuary and its sorely stressed people, too, lord Prince, and ... I must help, I have no choice." "I have heard that mysteriousness before, Spellmaster, but I will not pry. I believe you. If it is pain, then I am sorry. Both of us know pain." "And so am I sorry, lord Prince, so am I. Now I must warn my lord Prince about the Price." Kadakithis nodded. "Naturally I have heard about that, too- I want that help you've given so many others, Strick." "The Price is the Price, Prince Kadakithis. It is beyond my control. Sometimes it is severe and sometimes it is readily bearable. I have no control over it." "I know these things, Strick. I said I want that help you've given so many others. While I am called Kittycat, you are being called Hero of the People. Is a prince of the people not a person? Shall a prince be treated as less? Shall a prince be fearful of the Price? I know about it, Strick. Must a prince cajole?" Strick rose and bowed. "Noble Lord Prince! I have desired this meet- ing for months- These people deserve more of their gods and their rulers. Now you embarrass me; I have wanted to be of aid to you, as you know. The warning, believe me, is something I give to everyone who comes here. I must." Kadakithis nodded. And sat looking expectant. Waiting. Strick called Avenestra, but met her at the door. She knew that she was not to enter as usual and not even to see this visitor, and was able not to try. He let the prince hear him bid her prepare "Saksaraboonmga." She already had the drink's revolting but harmless ingredients ready, except for a bit more stirring to mix the vegetable colors of purple and green. She hurried to do so. Strick waited at the door; Kadakithis sat very still, staring at nothing past the Firaqi's empty chair. Avenestra reappeared from the other room to hand her savior a silver goblet. Strick 198 AFTERMATH paced over to set it on his worktable before his visitor. Kadakithis stiff- ened, bent forward to peer into the cup, stiffened the more, and tensed his face. Then, as if accepting a mandated cup of poison, he bravely reached for it. "A moment, my lord Prince. Give me something of value." First Kadakithis gave him a look. "I suppose the ritual bans the use of the word 'please'?" Strick stood gazing at him. He said nothing. True, this was a prince royal of Ranke and governor of this city—co-governor, at least, with his alien companion. Torezalan Strick tiFiraqa, however, was Tbrezalan Strick tiFiraqa, Spellmaster and Hero of the People. From within his pillow-stuffed brown tunic the disguised prince slid a tiny, beautifully carven box. He set it on the desk and opened it to reveal a single pearl. As if ritually, Strick only touched it. And looked expec- tant. With obvious misgivings and distaste for the concoction Strick had been at pains to make unpleasant in appearance, odor, and flavor, Prince Kadakithis drank it down. All of it, without lowering the cup. The man did know, Strick mused, how to take medicine! Lowering the drained goblet, Kadakithis shook his head. "And people think it's easy being a royal! By all gods, Strick, what's in that stuff!" "Nothing to harm you, lord Prince. A secret formula I have of a Zimmanabuniga wizard far to the west." With hands on the lean blond's shoulders, Strick told him that he was decisive, charismatic, and had no need to lack confidence, "for charisma and more importantly your intelligence will carry you through, to the benefit of Sanctuary. You must think much on this, particularly before sleep and before rising." The Rankan Prince-Governor of Sanctuary stood and gripped the far bigger man's hand. Strick noted that the young man stood more erect than when he had entered. For a few moments they stood gazing into each other's eyes. Then Kadakithis swung, drew his hooded cloak again about himself and his padded tunic, and left. With, Strick noted, a firmer and more confident tread than when he had entered. Strick sighed. Charlatan, he grumbled at himself, hardly for the first time. That handsome young man was already charismatic and decisive! It's just that now he Believes! Then the spellwright sent Wintsenay to pass the word; Strick needed to see Hanse. Kadakithis paid the Price. That same Fourday afternoon he received word that Taya had fled the palace. HOMECOMING 199 Shupansea was amused: "Well after all, she came here as your concu- bine, my love. And, however pampered, she's had nothing to do for a long, long while now!" Then: "On the other hand, I would recom- mend—" "Never mind," Kadakithis said with cool decisiveness. "I have already decided to take no action whatsoever. This cannot reflect badly on me, but will serve as further proof of how truly you and I love each other." Shu-sea blinked. "Well. How very clever—no, how very intelligent of you, my love!" Yes, he thought. And the point is, this is obviously the Price I must pay for Strick's help. even if it costs me face. An hour later a bank messenger arrived to tell Strick that someone had just deposited sixty unshaved golden Imperials to his account, each coin bearing the face of the previous emperor. Strick smiled and nodded. He knew who it was from, and wondered what other Price Kadakithis was paying. A short time later, Hanse responded to Strick's request to visit. He met the young Lady Esaria on her way out. Neither recognized the other because neither knew the other. Somewhere, the goddess Eshi smiled. "Hanse," Strick said without any preamble at all, "a man needs your help. A client needs a service only you can perform." Hanse put on his face of sweet innocence. "I can't imagine what you mean." Strick's smile was cursory; dutiful, "A wall or two needs to be scaled. A house and a room or two need to be entered. An item needs to be fetched." "Ah! I've heard of just the roach you need. He's called Shadowspawn, I believe." "Do you think he will perform this service?" "Probably. He usually works for himself. But, if the price is right . . ." Hanse gestured eloquently. "Tell me about this . . . mis- sion." "The price is right," Strick said, and told him about the mission. "Oh, no! Not a sorcerer!" "Hanse! After your experiences with the real thing up in Firaqa, this boy will pose you no problem. True, he was apprentice to Markmor the Archmage, but Markmor was found dead even before I came here. A lot of mages have come and gone, Hanse." Hanse nodded. "I remember that big one with the blue star on his forehead . . ." 200 AFTERMATH "Lythande," Strick said. "Lythande! Odd name for a man!" "That one will not be back, Hanse. Lythande does not like this town at all, and will never be back." "You know a lot, Strick. for a newcomer who's been here only a few months." Strick nodded. "Yes. I make it my business to learn things. Sanctuary is my business, now. And I, believe me, am here to stay. And we were discussing a certain venture concerning a roach and one Marype." "Oh but Father Us, how I hate sorcery!" Strick stared. "Perhaps you will refer me to a brave professional, then." "Bastard!" The professional thief made a show of his sigh. "What does he have that you want . . . acquired?" Strick held out his hand. An earring gleamed brightly in his palm: a glowing black stone caged in good gold. "The mate to this. It was torn from its wearer's ear and now that swinish mage is using it to harm him." "Nadeesh," Hanse murmured, and sighed. He nodded, gestured. Strick told him a bit more. Reluctantly, Hanse named a price. Discon- certingly, Strick did not even bother to dicker. He rose, placed the ear- ring in Hanse's hand, bade him grip it and try to visualize its mate, and laid hands on the best cat-thief in Sanctuary. "Now. You will be able to find it, once you're in its proximity. If it is in a container, bring it that way. This is important." Once more Hanse sighed. "A sorcerer! Gods, how I hate sorcery!" Strick merely gazed at him. The younger man rose. "It will be done, Strick," Shadowspawn said casually, on his way out. Strick surprised him with the standard benison on a thief: "May the night-dark cloak cover you and your actions this night," Meanwhile the spellwright was thinking: How interesting. He keeps company with an ensorceled cat and wears a dagger that's the product of sorcery. Hates it, hmm? Hanse wandered his town, thinking and working to relax as he pre- ferred to do before an important reaching venture. He noted reconstruc- tion, a purse-cutting, the painting of various buildings, the large number of foreigners imported to handle the work. Occasionally he returned—or ignored—a startled greeting. He saw Beysib mingling with Ilsigi and Rankans. Near the marketplace he was surprised to see large dark eyes peeping at him; the girl he had thought of only as Mignue's little sister. He pretended not to notice. Beard of Us' Jileel! All grown up and seem- ingly smuggling watermelons—and still staring! HOMECOMING 201 Noise at a wall's reconstruction site attracted him. He ambled that way, seeing that it was a real uprising. While disgruntled Ilsigi laborers mutter-muttered, refusing to work, a big fellow harangued them. He was ranting loudly about the way these walls were wrecked, among other destruction and deaths, and how the gods were angry at Sanctuary, and why should "we fix and put back a wall for those damned oversea Beys occupying our palace!" Imported workers meanwhile stood away. Unin- volved, they performed that act known as honoring the strike, meaning they stood or sat around enjoying the break. Some of the bully's words made sense to Hanse Things were bad here when I left, and obviously got a lot worse. I hate these loudmouthed rabble-rousers, but . . . Suddenly a lean, blond young man appeared, wearing a leather apron over his well-made blue tunic. He commenced working. Stone dust flew. Brave fellow, Hanse thought. Brave fool! Then he frowned, seeing the ranter pick up a jagged chunk of stone and take aim at the sole worker . . . Almost out of sight, the three Beys sent by Shupansea to watch over her beloved drew bowstrings to slay the rabble-rouser in defense of Kada— And Hanse threw. His flat lozenge of knife rushed to slice across the back of the big fellow's hand so that he dropped the stone with a scream. Another scream followed: he had dropped it on his own foot. Laughter rose as he danced, simultaneously squealing and cursing. The Beysibs lowered their bows and went back to looking invisible while everyone watched the dark, wiry young man who came running into the work area, wearing a good green tunic and nice doeskin leggings. The daring young worker in the leather apron, having retrieved the thrown knife, stared while the newcomer faced the loudmouth. "Go away, Tarkle," Hanse shouted. "All that babble you've been giv- ing out is just that—everybody knows you just don't like to work." The big rabble-rouser with the bloody hand, once again discovering that bullying was becoming a more and more hazardous pastime, glowered and made surly noises. He also noticed the deadly eyes and several other knives on the person of a known expert he had thought was long gone from Sanctuary. Tarkle backed off—limping. Suddenly Hanse and leather-apron were exchanging stares of recognition: "Prince!" "Hanse!" Excited noises went through the assemblage along with the usual rum- ble-rumble as they watched the Prince-Governor himself pounce onto a high spot and extend a hand to Hanse. 202 AFTERMATH "See who works on the walls of Sanctuary?" Kadakithis called, in a loud clear voice. "A Rankan! See who saves him from a murderous bully who knows not what he's doing?—an Ilsig ... my friend." Hanse's eyes rolled. Oh blast! There goes my credibility! Kadakithis spoke on, startling all of them with his confidence and charismatic eloquence. They cheered! His people went back to work— with Kadakithis. Damn, Hanse thought cheerlessly, stooping to grasp a big cut slab of stone. I'm stuck! I can't just walk off and leave the Prince-Gov working like a Downwinder! But . . . damn! Work! Me! Since Markmor's death, Hanse learned the following Eshday afternoon from one of the fixture/characters of the Maze, the street cleaner and trash picker called Old Thumpfoot, the quite young Marype had secretly set himself up in Lastel's villa, whether legally or otherwise. "How nice," Shadowspawn murmured, meandering along the Serpen- tine. He knew that well-appointed villa, and the late Lastel/One- Thumb's secret. All he had to do was use the tunnel connecting the house with a House; the brothel called Lily Garden. True, he had an idea about Cholly's dry-tack, but he'd try that another time. Cheered by that pros- pect, he dropped in to the Vulgar Unicorn for a piece of cheese and an apple. He'd eat a proper meal afterward, if his stomach agreed. He tar- ried, more than civil and almost loquacious to the surprise of a couple of old acquaintances. He left their company at sunset, taking a small pail of beer home to his new second-floor room. Notable was happy to see him and more than happy with the beer. He lapped with gusto while Hanse stretched out to rest and think. No question about it, entry will be like slicing pie. Now what am I likely to need? he thought, and his smile faded. Blast. Here previously, and up in Firaqa, he had grown accustomed to Mignue's warnings and direc- tions! Suppose I'm in and it turns out that I should have brought a brown crossed pot, or a copper kettle, or . . . "Gulp," he said aloud, trying to shame himself out of unwonted ner- vousness that was as uncharacteristic as his affability to the Vulg. Notable looked up from his whisker-grooming. " 'rraow?" "I said cats aren't supposed to belch, you beer-guzzling greedbag." Hanse directed his thoughts to Nadeesh, and from that unfortunate man to Strick. That man's going to make a Difference, he reflected. Al- ready has! Twice he shocked Notable by lurching up into a sitting posi- tion and snapping a throw. He had not told his landlord why he had grunted up here to his room with the old wooden wheel. It was inordi- HOMECOMING 203 nately thick and joined by pegs rather than nails. Braced against the wall farthest from the bed with the iron rim removed, it made a nice target. The throwing star he sent straight into the hub; the slender wafer of a knife from its sheath on his right upper arm missed by an inch. "Must be getting old," he muttered, swinging off the bed to retrieve both missiles. Pacing back to the bed, he whirled and threw. The flat, hiltless and guardless knife appeared in the hub. Tired of the violent nonsense, Notable said "rrawwrr!" and pounced. "Ouch! How'd you like to become my favorite target, Notable you dam' cat?" A couple of hours later he rose again and stripped, to change into his blacks; his work clothes. Notable seemed already to understand this rit- ual, whether or not cats saw colors: the big red animal pounced up onto the shelf under the window and looked from it to his human. "You're right," Shadowspawn said, double checking the lock on his door. "That's the way we go out tonight, m'friend." They did. An hour later, both of them had easily gained silent-entry to the large house formerly occupied by one Lastel/One-Thumb and now the lair of a young mage many thought dead. Hanse was sure they were wrong, al- though by now he had heard tales of the legions of walking and indeed wandering dead who had plagued Sanctuary's streets during his absence. No. Marype was alive. A look in the kitchen provided evidence of occu- pancy and recent cooking. A bed on the second floor had been used recently. In fact that bed looked as if Marype had lately entertained company. The tall cabinet-like press contained clothing. Not that of the departed Lastel, surely; expert eyes found membranous black gloves and noted that the thumbs of both were expanded by wear. On the point of keeping those nice thin gloves, the silent intruder decided against it. He'd steal nothing from the lair of a sorcerer; only that property of another which he was here to retrieve. He departed the bedroom without search- ing further, remembering the spellwright's words that he would know when he was nigh Nadeesh's earring. Soft-soled buskins as silent on good carpet as Notable's pads, a living shadow roamed dim corridors and stepped briefly into well-furnished chambers. Some had been long closed, he saw; he passed them without opening their doors. Man and cat saw no one and heard no sound. Nota- ble gave no indication that he scented any. Once he paused, head and one foot uplifted, and his companion went to the corridor wall like a shadow. A dark knife had materialized in his hand even as he squatted. Notable ambled over. Shadowspawn didn't touch the animal, waiting for any 204 AFTERMATH further indication of danger. Notable gave none. After several silent mo- ments his human tapped his back with the knife. "Dumbhead," Shadowspawn whispered, and Notable immediately commenced purring. "Shhh!" He rose and ghosted on, purring cat pacing close by. At last they came to a room containing a worktable and things that made the hair twitch on Shadowspawn's nape and writhe under his working blacks. Notable's purring stopped as if sliced. Ogods, how I hate sorce— Abruptly he knew that the earring was in that nice little mahogany casket. Nice work, Strick. On the point of opening the box, he paused, cocked his head, and stepped to one side. From there he flipped up the lid with the point of one of his knives. He heard the concealed trigger and watched the slender dart fling itself straight up into the ceiling with a tiny thunk of impact. Notable went into a low crouch while Shadowspawn nodded at sight of the little box's contents. Bloodstains, too. Still using the knife, he tipped the lid and waited alertly. Nothing happened save that the lid dropped almost noiselessly back into place. On the point of snatching it and departing this silent chamber whose contents made him horripilate, he spotted several strands of hair on the table. He popped them into the box, wrapped it in a nice strip of scarlet cloth off the table, and slipped it into his black upper garment. With rather unseemly haste, he vacated the chamber of Marype's sorceries. Easy as slicing pie. he reflected as he hurried down to the concealed entry to the old tunnel. Just as good as ever, without any help from Mignureal or anyone else! In that musty old tunnel he heard a rat and saw another and then he saw ghastly eeriness. Ghost images seemed frozen, locked in eternal com- bat. It looked like—could that be old One-Thumb? Surely not, he thought, and that was when the rat pounced. It was big, a rat the size of a normal cat, which Notable was not. Shadowspawn was only just able to duck, flailing. The cat had already pounced at the rat with a long ugly "Rrrawwwww," and Hanse smiled in anticipation of a swift squeaky massacre. A flurry of action wiped away his smile and brought a grunt from his throat; a big red shape went hurtling backward to flop loosely on hardpacked earth. "Notable!" Shadowspawn slammed a throwing knife into the rat, then another. His eyes went wide and he felt his nape hairs stir again at sight of both blades passing through the creature, bloodlessly. Shock immobilized him long enough for the rat to leap upon him and sink its fangs into his arm. Hanse groaned and bit his lip while he clamped the unnaturally heavy HOMECOMING 205 beast with his right hand. The rat felt just as strong as he. Its fangs were like thick needles and the pain was awful when he tried to pull the huge rodent away. Sweat coated him in seconds. Despite the fact that the other knives had accomplished nothing against what was obviously sorcery, he could not give it up. Even as the rat-thing gnawed him and his brain began to stagger in a red haze of pain, a terrified Shadowspawn drew Cholly's dagger and stabbed, slashed. With a shriek and a horrid jolt that made him cry out, the sorcerous thing vanished. So did the pain in Hanse's arm and the mark there. Yet his glance showed him a satisfying smear of blood on the dagger's silver- inlaid blade. Pouncing to take up the unconscious Notable, Shadow- spawn ran. I didn 't name Strick a high enough price/ Emerging like the shadow of a ghost into the Lily Garden, he ducked an amorously entwined couple who never saw him. A downward glance showed him that the big heavy cat in his arms had one eye slitted open. It gazed greenly up at him. "Oh, Notable, you omery faker! See who gets the beer after this night's work!" Notable made a distinctly unpleasant remark. Hanse tarried to be cute with the Lily Garden's proprietor, Amoli, but not for long. A few minutes after his departure, Amoli was bustling along the tunnel to tell Marype a few things . . . Early Anenday morning Strick himself arrived at the home ofNadeesh the leech. Using the earring with its brown-stained post, Strick easily "cured" the physician- Nadeesh upheld his bargain: he agreed to sell the Vulgar Unicorn (which he wanted to get rid of anyhow!) to Strick tiFiraqa. Strick kept the sorcerer's box and the few strands of human hair. Marype's hair. "There, Snapper Jo. Do you have any further doubts that I have power over you?" The cowering demon shook its hideous head. "Good," the new owner of the Vulgar Unicorn said. "You've just been replaced. Go find other employment." By the following night a native Ilsigi had been installed as night bar- man at the Vulg; seeing that former carpenter Abohorr had lost a digit, everyone immediately delighted in calling him One-Thumb. Later that evening those same patrons were astonished and proud to see in their favorite haunt here in the very heart of the Maze: the white spellmaster Strick and Lady Esaria (with two bodyguards, of course). They seemed 206 AFTERMATH to have a nice time. Even drunks were sensible enough to say nothing untoward to the spellmaster's lady. No one knew that Strick owned the place. As a matter of fact hardly anyone knew that Nadeesh had owned it. Most patrons did like the new serving girl. Silky, with her odd accent. That same Moondy night Hanse ambled along, richer by quite a bit and actually trying not to swagger. As he passed an alley he was hit by a stagger spell, grabbed by three large toughs, punched, drugged, bound, gagged, and popped into a big cloth bag. Callous men hurried him to the waterfront. Their bagged burden thought of the stories he'd heard of slavers, right here in Sanctuary. Groggily he recognized one voice among the three: Tarkle. In the rope-bound sack, Hanse was boosted onto the ship Asienta and tumbled into the hold with a mild splash. He listened to the hatch being screwed down tightly. Groggily he heard that the ship sailed tomorrow for the far Bandaran Islands. UNEASY ALLIANCES CONTENTS Dramatis Personae, Lynn Abbey ..................... 211 Introduction, Lynn Abbey ......................... 217 Slave Trade, Robert Lynn Asprin ..................... 227 The Best of Friends, C. J. Cherryh ................... 238 The Power of Kings, Jon DeCles ..................... 268 Red Light, Love Light, Chris Morris .................. 290 A Sticky Business, C. 5: Williams .................... 307 The Promise of Heaven, Robin Wayne Bailey ............. 331 The Vision of Lalo, Diana L. Paxson .................. 362 UNEASY ALLIANCES Dramatis Personae The Townspeople AHDIOVIZUN; AHDIOMER viz; AHDIO—Proprietor of Sly's Place, a legendary dive within the Maze. THRODE—An employee at Sly's Place. CLEYA; JODEERA—The woman Ahdio loves, and who works for him at Sly's Place. Since she is far too beautiful to travel safely through the Maze, Ahdio has arranged for her to be protected by a disguise of ugliness. i LALO THE LIMNER—Street artist gifted with magic he does not fully un- j derstand. '!: GILLA—His indomitable wife. i t GANNER—Their middle son, slain during the False Plague Riots of the previous winter which signaled the end of severe civil unrest in Sanctuary. VANDA—Their daughter, employed as nursemaid to the Beysib at the palace. WEDEMIR—Their eldest child and son. A member of Walegrin's guard patrol. LATILLA—Their youngest daughter. ALFI—Their infant son. 212 UNEASY ALLIANCES HAKIEM—Storyteller and confidant extraordinaire. HORT—Son of a fisherman and Hakiem's apprentice. JUBAL—Prematurely aged former gladiator. Once he openly ran Sanc- tuary's most visible criminal organization, the Hawkmasks, now he works behind the scenes. SALIMAN—His aide and only friend. MORIA—Once one ofJubal's Hawkmasks, then a servant of Ischade. She was physically transformed into a Rankan noblewoman before the magic died, and the transformation endures. She is in hiding with Stilcho. MYRTIS—Madam of the Aphrodisia House. SNAPPER JO—A fiend who survived the destruction of magic in Sanctuary. Once employed as a bartender in the Vulgar Unicorn. STILCHO—Once one oflschade's resurrected minions. He was "cured" of death when magic was purged from Sanctuary. zip—Sitter young terrorist. Leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary (PELS). Now he and his remaining fighters have been designated as officials responsible for peace in the city. The S'danzo ILLYRA—Half-blood S'danzo seeress with True Sight. Wounded by PELS in the False Plague Riots. DUBRO—Bazaar blacksmith and husband to Illyra. THE TERMAGANT—Oldest of the S'danzo women practicing her craft in Sanctuary. DRAMATIS PERSONAE The Magicians 213 ILSIGI MAGES: MARKMOR—A powerful, ambitious, youthful wizard. MARYPE—His arrogant, yet blundering, apprentice. MIZRAITH—Marype's father, slain by Markmor shortly after the Prince arrived in Sanctuary. RANKAN HAZARDS DWELLING AT THE MAGEGUILD; RANDAL; WITCHY-EARS—The only mage ever admitted into the Sacred Band of Stepsons or trusted by them. Now a teacher at the Mageguild. Those who adhere to no hierarchy or discipline but their own: ENAS YORL—Quasi-immortal mage cursed with eternal life and a constantly changing physical form. ISCHADE—Necromancer and thief. Her curse is passed to her lovers who die from it. Since the diminution of magic in Sanctuary, she has been in isolation at her house on the White Foal River. STRICK;TORAZELAN STRICK TIFIRAQA—White Mage who has made Sanctuary his home. He will help anyone who comes to him, but there is always a Price, sometimes trivial and sometimes not, for his aid. Visitors in Sanctuary THE SHEPHERD—A figure of considerable mystery. By his panoply he might be an Ilsigi warrior—but all such men have been dead for years. The Rankans Living in Sanctuary CHENAYA; DAUGHTER OF THE sw—A beautiful and powerful young woman, the Prince's cousin, who is fated never to lose a fight. In her 214 UNEASY ALLIANCES arrogance and innocence she made more enemies in Sanctuary than even fate could handle and has left town until her reputation repairs itself. DAYRNE—Her companion and trainer. LEYN, QUIJEN, DISMAS AND GESTUS—Her friends and gladiators at her father's school. DAPHNE—Rankan noblewoman and first wife of Prince Kadakithis. Os- tensibly sent to safety before the arrival of the Beysib, she was actually kidnapped and sold into slavery on Scavenger's Island where Chenaya rescued her. She is estranged from her husband. PRINCE KADAKITHIS—Charismatic but somewhat naive half-brother of the assassinated Emperor, Abakithis. LOWAN VIGELES—Half-brother ofMolin Torchholder, father of Chenaya. A wealthy aristocrat self-exiled to Sanctuary and hoping to return to the Rankan capital in triumph someday. He operates a gladiator school at his Land's End estate and has built a small, temporary arena there. MOLIN TORCHHOLDER; TORCH—Archpriest of Sanctuary's wargod (whichever deity that is at the moment). Architect for the rebuilt walls of Sanctuary, Supreme bureaucratic administrator of the city. RASHAN; THE EYE OF SAVANKALA—Priest and Judge of Savankala. Highest ranking Rankan in Sanctuary prior to the arrival of the Prince, now allied with Chenaya's disaffected Rankans at Land's End. STEPSONS; SACRED BANDERS—members of a mercenary unit loyal to Tempus. Their years in Sanctuary were among the worst in their history and all but a few of them have gratefully left town. CRITIAS;CRIT—Longtime mercenary in the company. Tempus left him in charge of peace-keeping in Sanctuary when everyone else left. Also the partner of Straton, though that pairing has been in disarray for some time now. STRATON; STRAT; ACE—Partner ofCritias. Injured by the PELS at the start of the False Plague Riots. He has been Ischade's lover DRAMATIS PERSONAE 215 and though her curse has not killed him, most of his former associates count him among Sanctuary's damned. WALEGRIN—Rankan army officer assigned to the Sanctuary garrison where his father had been slain by the S'danzo many years before. He is now one of three officers responsible for the peace in Sanctuary. He is also Illyra 's half-brother. The Beysib SHUPANSEA; sw-SEA—Head of the Beysib exiles in Sanctuary; mortal avatar of the Beysib mother goddess. Lover of Prince Kadakithis whom she wishes to marry. INTRODUCTION Lynn Abbey "No! No more blood! Make it stop!" Shupansea awoke at the sound of her own scream. The nightmare had propelled her out of bed and to the window of her bedchamber. With a trembling hand she pulled the casement shut- This wasn't the first time she'd found herself before an open window; wasn't the first time she shed a cold sweat wondering what would happen if some night she did not scream herself awake. "0 Beysa, forgive my intrusion. I—I heard you scream . . ." Shupansea turned to the lamplight and faced the frightened eyes of Kammesin, the woman who had cared for her since infancy. "It was nothing—a noise in the dark. Nothing at all." Kammesin did not relax. The old woman's eyes remained wide, round and steadily unblinking. Mother Bey! Had she been exiled so long among the fluttering Rankans that her own people looked strange and un- nerving? Was her soul forgetting that the fixed stare was a gesture of honesty and transparency as much as it was a measure of uncontrolled anxiety? And had she, herself, blinked even once since waking from the nightmare? "Yes, Kam-sin," she admitted, forcing the membrane to withdraw and her eyelids to descend. "It was the nightmare, again. But I'm all right now. Just light my lamp, then you go back to sleep." The woman gave a shrug that every servant knew. It meant the same to both Rankans and Beysibs; disbelief and resignation. "As you wish, 0 Beysa." She lit the lamp beside the bed as she left. A flush of shame burned across the Beysa's face as she heard the door 218 UNEASY ALLIANCES close. Those folk who believed aristocrats were unaware of their servants had no understanding of the matter at all. Shupansea felt her old nurse's censure as a sad, painful twinge in her heart. All her life she had confided in Kammesin, but now, when she was overflowing with despair, she could speak to no one. In point of fact, the Beysa wished to speak to the goddess Bey. She wanted to know why, after these seasons in Sanctuary, her sleep was haunted by memories of the final, bloody days of her brief, unsanctified reign over the Beysin Empire. But it had been more than a year since the Mother's voice had resounded within her head. Mother Bey, like every- thing else magical or divine in Sanctuary, had been reduced to shadow strength. The town which had been god-ridden was now virtually god-less. Mother Bey was the merest whisper of empathy in Her avatar's mind. A calming whisper nonetheless, and it seemed to say that the goddess was content with exile and did not plan to return home soon. That's not enough, the Beysa thought loudly enough, she hoped, for the goddess to hear. / can't stay here and remember the past, too. The flicker of empathy shifted, resonating love and the smiling face of Prince Kadakithis. Shupansea grit her teeth and shook the feeling away. Mother Bey had strengthened every cynic's hand when She tumbled into a divine infatuation with the wargod, Stormbringer. Half the people in Sanctuary—if not the known world—had shared hot frustration in their dreams as the would-be lovers contended with a mismatch of immortal anatomy. Such divine emissions had ceased when the magical nouma of Sanctu- ary was burned away, but Shupansea knew the pair chased each other still and she was more than slightly embarrassed by her progenitor's lusty behavior. Though Shupansea purged the goddess from her thoughts and feeling, the prince was not so easily removed. Surely it was no coincidence that the nightmares had started right after they'd announced their intended. but still unscheduled, marriage. Right after she'd decided to abide by Rankan standards of acceptable behavior and moved her personal entou- rage out of Kadakithis's suite. Love had never been part of Shupansea's emotional vocabulary. In- deed, no Beysa had ever dared to love—not when her blood was venom and all her male offspring were condemned to death in her womb. At home they sacrificed the royal consort, and the Beysa insured her line with casual, guilt-free affairs. Could she doubt for one heartbeat that the nightmares—the cold fear INTRODUCTION 219 that lived in her belly—were the underside of her love for an unlucky Rankan prince? Shupansea shivered from the fear, and the everpresent dampness that permeated the palace. She shrugged her gown over her shoulders and looked beside the bed for her slippers. It was no wonder that Rankan women swaddled themselves in layer upon layer of cloth. Sanctuary was always damp; it was hot and damp in the summer, then chilly and damp the rest of the time. Either way you wrapped yourself in soft, absorbent cloth for comfort. She opened the door quietly, half expecting to find Kammesin crouched beside the latch-hole. The corridor was empty, but her lamp- light caught the final sway of a nearby drapery. Despite her age, Kam-sin had retreated to her alcove and, after another moment, began snoring gently. A faint smile crossed the Beysa's lips as she headed for the sunrise wing. Twice a year everyone who was anyone changed residence from one side of the palace to the other—adjusting the social hierarchy in the process. The best people had sunrise suites in the warmer months and sunset suites in the dreary winter. At first Shupansea and her comrades-in-exile had taken all the good rooms for themselves—winning themselves no friends among the Rankans. Moving days had been tense, bristly affairs with frequent brawls between the servants and the occasional duel between the incom- ing and outgoing residents. The palace, like the city, had mellowed in the last year. Some of the Beysibs had moved to renovated estates beyond the walls; some of the Rankans had as well. Those who remained got along better—as well as any court in either empire—and Beysibs began mixing with Rankans on both sides of fortune's wheel. The man whom Shupansea sought could have had an apartment on the sunset side, but he chose, for reasons of his own, to live in counterpoint to both the Beysa and his prince. "Ambitious people have stronger stories," Hakiem always insisted when moving day found him marshalling his possessions against the tide. "And unhappy people have tragic ones." The Beysa never argued with the storyteller, who was her closest friend among the natives. Privately she thought he was wrong, at least about tragedy. She knew her own story, and that of Prince Kadakithis, and she'd gladly have changed with a sunrise resident whose life was both comfortable and dull. Trusted servants slept in alcoves and on pallets beside their masters' doors. The more alert and reliable managed to be wide-awake as Shupan- 220 UNEASY ALLIANCES sea walked by with her lamp. Most of the Beysibs kowtowed to her shadow, some of the Rankans glowered with scant respect—but not as many as once had done. The Beysa ignored them, which was what they all expected anyway. Hakiem's knotted latchstring was drawn to the inside of his door, and Shupansea was suddenly aware of the late hour. The storyteller said he was always ready to be her ears—any day, any night—but he wasn't a young man. Men and women offered themselves to a Beysa or a Prince in the sublime confidence that their gift would never be called. Twice Shupansea pulled her knuckles soundlessly back from the door. The third time she touched the wood, but still there was no sound as the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. "Hakiem? Friend?" The room was empty; the storyteller's pallet was rolled up into a day- cushion. Shupansea felt awkward and foolish. Hakiem was old enough to be her father, but that didn't quite make him old. Certainly he was charming, witty, and—now that he was better groomed and bathed regu- larly—cut a handsome figure among the court ladies who commonly complained that men talked only of war and politics. Surely he had offers —no doubt his assignations were more easily arranged from this side of the palace. She resolved to make no mention of her untimely visit and was about to leave when the lamplight fell on a pile of drawings. She saw her prince with a bloody sword, and herself with bloody hands—and curiosity got the better of her good sense. Lighting Hakiem's lamp from her own, Shupansea settled down to examine the colored sketches more closely. Not all of Sanctuary ran on palace time. The Street of Red Lanterns was ablaze well past midnight. The Maze didn't start to get interesting until respectable people pulled their shutters in. And a dive like the Vulgar Unicorn hit its stride a good deal later than that. Through all Sanctuary's vicissitudes, the Vulgar Unicorn had been a touchstone of a sort of stability. Its bartenders—human and otherwise— were uniformly ugly; its wenches were invariably on the downside of careers that had never looked promising. Its food was uncompromisingly vile, and the swill they tapped from their kegs . . . The beer at the Vulgar Unicorn was generally regarded to be the worst of mixing sludge from the harbor and goat urine; the wine—well, the beer was better than the wine. Irony of ironies: Hakiem the Storyteller, who had spent the better part of his adult life in a drunken stupor, begging coppers to squander on the INTRODUCTION 221 vulgar wine, now had enough money to buy the tavern's entire cellar, and he could no longer drink the bilge. The taste was the same in his mouth, and it brought back bittersweet memories of a vanished Sanctuary, but he dared not swallow. Fortunately no one noticed when he hawked the bloody liquid at the floor. He was in disguise—that is, he wore the old clothes he'd sworn to incinerate years ago. Most people knew he'd come up in the world; most people didn't recognize him when he looked liked his old self. A few even worried about him and warned him away from the Unicorn now that he had a few coins in his pouch and access to the palace. Those few were probably right, but he could no more live without the Vulgar Unicorn than he could . . . Than he could live in the palace day after day. Late at night, long after his respectable patrons had shut down their respectable soirees, Hakiem eased back to the Sanctuary they could not imagine and harvested another crop of tales. He had an apprentice of sorts, the fisherman's lad, Hort, who did the first winnowing and prun- ing, but nothing could replace his own senses. And nothing could replace the parade of life in the Vulgar Unicorn. He let his eyes go out of focus—an easy task since his hair had begun turning white as well as gray—and was struck by a wild insight that shook him in his shoes: His beloved Unicorn and the palace weren 't so very different after all. He gulped his mug of wine and blamed his seeping eyes on it. But, no, the comparison was in his mind and the similarities would not go away. The Vulgar Unicorn and the palace were both places where style was generally more important than substance. They were both places where you belonged, or you didn't belong—and where you had to always prove that you still belonged. Both had reputations which ex- ceeded reality, and—might as well admit it—both were parasites in the city's lifeblood. Dark Shalpa knew how many honest men it took to support a thief— even one who lied as all thieves lie. Hakiem guessed it took about as many as it took to support an aristocrat. "You look like you've seen a ghost," Hort said cheerfully as he took the chair opposite his mentor. Hakiem raised his head to see twins smiling at him. Puttering Nether- gods! What did these people put in their wine? Old habits, however, died hard and stood him in good stead as he reestablished conscious control over his body with slow, deliberate gestures. Old habits, and the fact that he had drunk no more than half a mug of sour wine. "You've forgotten everything I've taught you," he said, using drawling sarcasm to mask the stiffness in his tongue. 222 UNEASY ALLIANCES "What sort of introduction is that? Make a point, Hort. Get your audience's attention. Add color. What manner of ghost; what sort of look—" They had played this game before. Hort puffed up his chest and spread his arms wide. "Ye gods, old sot, your eyes are as red as the gutters in Shambles Cross; you're as pale as a man who's seen his mother's ghost dancing naked with Vashanka's tent peg!" Hakiem swallowed hard, and not because of the wine. The boy had talent; had learned everything he'd been taught. He didn't need a mentor any longer. "Better, lad. Much better. You do yourself, and myself, proud. Now, tell me, what have your pointed little ears heard this week?'* "Tales of vengeance: brothers for brothers, fathers for sons. Ordinary folk are confident that the worst is over and are stepping out to settle their own scores." Hakiem nodded. He'd sensed as much himself. The Nisibisi-funded PFLS anarchy was over and there was a sense that the future would not be like the past. But debts had to be evened before the future was em- braced. "What else?" "A whole new society growing in Shambles where the rousters who moved Torchholder's stones make their homes. They think the streets of Sanctuary are paved with gold—or at least the walls are—and, dammit, if they don't seem to be right. Everybody's swinging a mallet or smooth- ing mortar, even our Prince, and the common folk think the world's getting better each day." "Are there any clouds on our cheerful horizon?" The young man shed his expansiveness. His eyes grew intense and he leaned across the table. Still good storytelling, but Hakiem sensed there was something more in Hort's eagerness. "Men are vanishing, maybe five or six a week. And they're not turning up in any of the usual places. Some say it's the Mageguild trying to get power back, but I've found a blind alley there. Best guess points toward the harbor." "You've checked that out?" Hort drew back a hand's breadth. He was the son of the best fisherman in town, and, while he had no taste for salt water himself, he had the confidence of those who did. "We're taking more trade up and down the coast: stone for the walls and pretties for Beysib gold. Most goes where it should, but some sails west and hooks about the Hag Banks—and you know what that means." It galled a bit, but Hakiem had to shrug and shake his head. He'd INTRODUCTION 223 heard of the banks, where the Beysib fisherfolk had taught Hort's people to set their nets for deep water fish, but he knew nothing more. Hort's smile deepened. "Catch the current there," he whispered, lean- ing further across the table. "And you bring up in the lee of Scavenger Island with a harbor as deep as ours, twice as wide—and no law at all to interfere with your gold." The master storyteller twirled a grey tuft of his beard. He knew the history of Sanctuary better than any other man. These days the Rankans were the tyrants and the townsfolk pointed with underdog pride to their Ilsigi ancestry; it hadn't always been that way. Not far beyond the reach of living memory the Ilsig kings had been the enemy, and Scavenger's Island had been the sanctuary toward which the oppressed fled. Scavenger's Island—pirate haven. A place which made Sanctuary at its worst seem serene and orderly by comparison. Scourge of the seas, Har- rier of the coast, and, also, a place which had generally regarded Sanctu- ary as a poor relation and left it alone. But Sanctuary wasn't poor any longer. "How does this tie to the missing men?" Hakiem asked, completely sober now. Hort shrugged. "Some go willingly as recruits, the rest as galley slaves." "And no one else suspects that we're being harvested by pirates?" "Did you?" Again Hakiem had to shake his head. Sanctuary had always been downtrodden—a home to thieves, not the target of pirates. Old habits died hard, indeed. "The Old Man," Hort continued, speaking of his father, "says you can always trust kings and princes to build their walls in the wrong place." / suppose you can, Hakiem agreed in silence. "You'll tell them, won't you?" Hort asked, no longer a storyteller but simply a young man who was afraid for his home and his life. Hakiem nodded. He would, of course; nevertheless, a tale like this was wood-ripe for burning and required special care. There were people in Sanctuary who could confirm the substance of Hort's suspicions, and few of them owed an old storyteller a favor. He'd get started tomorrow, but without Hort. There were some tricks to his trade Hakiem hoped the younger man would never need to know. "Anything else, my boy? Scandals, magic, two-headed calves?" Hort relaxed and began one of many tales, about a love charm gone remarkably awry. 224 UNEASY ALLIANCES It was nearly dawn when Hakiem made his way out of the Maze to West Gate Street. He'd stayed out later than planned, drunk more than he should, and could practically feel his plump bed beneath his cheeks. A group of tired guards hailed him as he came through the gate, then looked the other way as he took a candle from the rack and slipped into the backways. The backways were always the fastest, most discreet ways through the palace. A warren of hidden stairways, corridors and cul-de-sacs had been built in order to be officially forgotten at the end of each burst of palatial expansion. Like the Maze and the sewers, they were runwred to be more mysterious than they actually were. Beneath the Hall of Justice, Hakiem passed not one but three courtiers scurrying back to their proper beds; he didn't even try to count the servants. There was only one protocol along these backways: silence. One might look, but never see; hear but never speak. Hakiem remembered what he saw, but unless he saw the same event in a public area it stayed locked forever within him. As the storyteller rounded the dusty comer where the backways merged with the public ways, he was minded again of the similarities between palace life and criminal survival. There were seeds of an epic tale sprouting in his mind and no room for other thoughts. Later on Hakiem would say of those next few moments that he was neither a kowtowing Beysib nor a stiff-backed Rankan courtier and so he looked the Beysa straight in the eye as a proud Ilsigi. Truth was, though, that the sight of Shupansea—with her dark gold hair night-braided, her soft wool gown and slippers, and her deadly emerald beynit draped across her shoulder—sitting on his cushions completely unnerved him. "0—0—0 Bey—" Words failed him as they had never failed before. The Beysa reacted with more aplomb. She tittered like an apprentice handmaid and scattered a pile of drawings clear across the floor. Only the slender serpent retained its dignity; it yawned, showing its ivory fangs and crimson maw, then wove itself deep into her hair. Shupansea grabbed the nearest of the drawings. She got to her feet and held it out as a peace offering. "I'm sorry. Storyteller . . ." Her lamp was guttering. A swathe of pale light came through the narrow window. She realized she'd spent the night in his room—with him or without him. "Oh, I'm really sorry." Hakiem bent down to pick up another drawing, and to look at some- thing besides her face. A successful drunk leams that death is not the likely consequence of embarrassment. He had mastered that lesson years ago, but the Beysa, obviously, had not. She was redder than her serpent's mouth. INTRODUCTION 225 "Had I known it was you, 0 Beysa," he tried to keep the absurd amusement from his voice and reached for another drawing. "Had I but known, I would have come home much sooner." Time froze for a moment, then thawed as Shupansea exhaled in a long, trembling sigh. "I—I had nightmares. I thought you might be able to help . . . If I could think of an ending for the dreams, perhaps they'd go away. You always seem to know how things should end." Hakiem shook his head sadly. "That's because stories may end while the hero—or heroine—is still alive. Life is different, 0 Beysa. But I would be glad to listen." "No, I guess I understand that they're my dreams, and I must conquer them." She crouched down and gathered more of the colorful parchment scraps. Her fingers paused above a portrait of Prince Kadakithis standing uneasily beside a corpse. "I think maybe I learned something just looking at your pictures. It's strange—I've never thought of Ki-this using his sword. I mean, he's not weak, but I love him because he's gentle. He's strong and gentle—and someday maybe his people will realize that. But looking at this—well, I could see it happening. I knew. this man was a traitor, and that Ki-this had to kill him. He was proud and disgusted both at the same time—and he grew up that night. "I'll have to do the same thing—well, maybe not with a sword, but I've got to grow up if I'm to help him turn Sanctuary into one city for every- one, You should draw more pictures and put them where everyone can see them." Hakiem made a sour grimace and took the scraps from her hand. *That, I fear, is the general idea. I tell stories while an artist sketches, and then the Torch—excuse me. Lord Torchholder—intends to have them painted on his new walls." Shupansea straightened as if the priest had entered the room. She had a half-dozen contradictory opinions about the omnipresent bureaucrat. Not that anyone claimed to understand Molin Torchholder. He was a black-haired Rankan, a dedicated priest of a vanquished god and the driving force behind the resurrection of a city he openly loathed. "It's a good idea. He hasn't mentioned it yet, but he will, and both Ki- this and I will tell him so. He'll grumble something about doing what's necessary and walk away under a dark cloud. It must be hard, I think, to work as hard as Lord Torchholder does, and get so little satisfaction." "They say hate is as satisfactory a mistress as love." "I prefer love." "Lord Torchholder does not." The last drawing had slipped beneath the cushions. They both saw it at the same time and Hakiem, who recognized the subject from the visible 226 UNEASY ALLIANCES corner, dove to retrieve it first. He would have had it, but his sudden lunge aroused Shupansea's serpent. Discretion was always the better part of valor, still a lump hardened in his throat as she pulled the sketch out. Torchholder's orders had been precise: illustrations from Hakiem's sto- ries of the events that had shaped Sanctuary since the Prince had arrived as governor. There had been few occasions more momentous than the afternoon when Kadakithis had handed the Savankh to the Beysa and her court-in-exile for "safe-keeping." Hakiem liked Shupansea now—the Prince wanted to make her his wife—but they'd hated her that afternoon and it showed clearly in Lalo's sketch. Draped in jewels and cloth-of-gold, hard-eyed, her face and naked breasts painted an iridescent green, Shupansea had been the archetype of arrogance. The storyteller seldom connected the young woman he'd come to know and the alien creature he remembered, but he could not deny that the Beysib, with their abundant gold and equally abundant contempt for all non-Beysib things, had been the prime cause of Sanc- tuary's horrors. The Rankan campaign against the Nisibisi in the north would scarcely have touched the city—much less divided it—if the Beysib hadn't riled it first. "Does he intend to have them all painted?" Shupansea asked in care- fully measured tones, her gaze never rising from the picture. "With the Prince's approval, and yours—of course." The parchment fluttered in her hand. Her eyes went wide and glassy, the beynit rose from her hair, and Hakiem began to doubt that she had, in fact, truly changed during the years he'd been advising her. She had returned the Savankh to the prince's keeping, but not the power behind it. "We looked like that, didn't we?" Shupansea whispered as she put the parchment on top of the pile. "And nothing I ever do will erase that picture, will it?" Hakiem caught her hand and squeezed it gently. "I don't tell stories about the future, you know, but it's my guess that Lord Molin means to leave the largest space—the space above the main gate—for a commemo- ration of your wedding with Prince Kadakithis—" Shupansea sighed and pulled her hand away. "If we marry. Maybe hate is stronger than love." She stood in the doorway, looking over her shoulder, waiting for Hakiem to deny what she did not believe could be denied. "Hope is the strongest of all," he assured, and watched her walk slowly down the corridor. SLAVE TRADE Robert Lynn Asprin Saliman did not have to stretch his acting talents-to maintain an air of disdain as he carefully picked his way through the rows of chained slaves. He had performed this task hundreds of times before, so though unpleas- ant, the odor of so many close-packed, unwashed bodies was not new to him. The fact that he was on board a ship only added a new batch of musty smells to the proceedings. Pulling his cloak high to keep it from the filth on the floor would do no good. The air itself would invade the fabric until it would either have to be thoroughly cleaned or discarded altogether. One didn't wear one's best clothes to shop for slaves. No, it was not the distasteful nature of the job that had Saliman in such a vile mood, but rather the hour. The fact that he had been rousted from a warm bed shared by an even warmer bed partner to carry out this mission in the pre-dawn hours virtually guaranteed that he would be less than generous in his negotiations with the slavers. "I shouldn't be doing this," the man holding the lantern grumbled loudly. "I got better things to do, what with the ship to get underway and all." This was, of course, the reason for this sudden assignment. The ship was due to sail on the morning tide, and it was important to carry out this mission before it left Sanctuary's waters. Still, it gave Saliman a focus for his irritation. "Do you want me to tell that to Jubal?" he said, his expression bland. "I'm sure if I alert him to your inconvenience, he'll be careful to only bother you with important matters in the future." The thinly veiled threat was not lost on the slaver. 228 UNEASY ALLIANCES "No! I ... that won't be necessary." The slavers had paid well to be sure that Sanctuary's crime lord did not interfere with their operation, and did not wish to raise that price by denying his request. Particularly not when Jubal's prices were known to occasionally include blood as well as money. "If you could simply speed your selection?" The man was pleading now. "This is the third time we've been through the rows, and if I don't set sail soon, I'll miss the morning tide and lose a full day's travel." Saliman ignored him, not deigning to dignify the whine with a re- sponse as he peered around the darkness of the ship's hold. Sailing ships were not noted for their punctuality, not when winds and storms could affect their schedules by weeks, not just days. Still, he was secretly in agreement with the slaver. This was taking much longer than was necessary. Of course, the search was slowed by his reluctance to admit that he was searching for two particular men rather than two slaves in general. If he were to impart that piece of information, the process would be speeded, but the price would doubtless increase with the implied importance of the individuals in question, Surprisingly enough, it was the man Saliman only had a description of who had been the easiest to find. While his features and hair had been obvious enough, that slave had been rocking back and forth, hugging his knees and moaning his own name as if trying to cling to his pre-slave identity. It was the other man, the one Saliman knew on sight, who had thus far eluded his search. A movement in the dark caught his eye, and he grasped the slaver's arm, redirecting the light of the hooded lantern. "What's that?" he demanded, gesturing toward a large sack, its mouth secured by ropes. "That? Oh, that's a special deal we made. A fellow and a couple of his friends brought that one by ... said they were getting rid of his wife's lover. They made me promise not to let him out of the bag until we were at sea." "You bought a slave without even looking at him?" "They weren't asking much for him," the slaver shrugged. "If he's alive, we'll show a profit, and from the way the bag's been jumpin' around it's pretty safe to say he's alive." "Well, open the bag and let me see him." "But I just told you—" "Yes, yes. You promised. But if you're about to sail, who's to know whether you opened it early or not?" The slaver drew a breath to argue, then shrugged and gestured to the two burly sailors who had been standing by to insure that none of the SLAVE TRADE 229 slaves attempted either attack or escape while the hold was open. Those stalwarts seized the bag, kicking aside any slave who happened to be in their path, and began fumbling with the ropes that secured its mouth. There were a few underbreath grumbles about landsmen who didn't know proper knots, then the bag was opened and its contents jerked upright for display. The slave was a slim youth, still clothed—which confirmed the slaver's claim that he had been untouched since being brought aboard. His wrists were bound and his mouth gagged, and he blinked painfully in the sud- den light of the lantern's glare. Saliman knew him instantly, though he was careful not to let any sign of recognition show on his face. Shadowspawn. One of Sanctuary's homegrown thieves who had stolen and fought his way to the top of his profession. The thief gave no sign of recognizing Saliman, though whether this was from any cunning on his part or from simple lantern-blindness and drug-confusion, was hard to tell. Whichever it was, he decided to act before the scene had a chance to change. "Well, he's not much . . . but he's the closest I've seen. I'll take him." He made a point of turning away before the slaver could even begin the anticipated protest. "But ... I can't do that!" came the expected sputter. "I told you, we weren't even supposed to open the sack until we were at sea! If the ones who sold him to us see him walking around town—" ". . . You won't care one whit because you'll already be at sea with your profits," Saliman finished loftily. "Spare me your efforts to wheedle a higher price. Remember, I'm not some landowner who only buys one slave a year. I'm too familiar with the trade to be convinced of the worth of a slaver's word." "But—" "I'll give you fifty in gold for him. If that isn't sufficient I'll just have to review the rest of your stock again. I was trying to be considerate of your schedule, but if you prefer to spend time haggling I have nothing else to do before midday." Faced with logic, an ebbing tide, and a more than generous offer, the slaver surrendered ... as Saliman had known he would. Still, by the time the money had changed hands and the slaves hauled out of the hold and offloaded onto the wharf, the sun had already begun its slow climb into the heavens. A wagon was waiting there, and the slaves were put in the load and covered with a tarp, the thief still secured in his sack. Saliman had a UNEASY ALLIANCES 230 healthy respect for the youth's talents, and did not wish to return to Jubal with one slave and a tale of escape. The one called Shadowspawn would have to wait until they were in more secure quarters before his bonds were loosened . . . quarters safe not only from escape, but from prying eyes as well. Despite his offhand manner with the slaver, Saliman kept a careful watch until his cargo was covered from sight. The fishermen had already left for their day's task so the wharf was deserted, but that could only serve to focus attention on his own activities. Though he had had no specific instructions for secrecy, he could see no advantage to letting it be known that the two slaves were still in Sanctuary, and countless disad- vantages. The driver clucked to his team and departed without a wave or a backward glance, leaving Saliman to find his way to the rendezvous on his own. Again, this was as planned. While it would have been easier to ride in the wagon, there were too many in town who recognized him on sight and knew him for Jubal's lieutenant. Shopping and hauling were not among his normal duties, and his presence on the wagon would have drawn unwanted attention to the cargo and its destination. He was not normally awake, much less about at such an early hour, and as he trudged through the streets Saliman peered about him curi- ously as the shops and stalls of Sanctuary came to life, preparing for the day's business. There seemed to be more people in town now, a lot of strange faces what with the work being done on the walls. Work meant money in the pockets of the laborers, money which was quickly trans- ferred to the coffers of shopkeepers, tavern owners and whores. The old hopelessness of Sanctuary and the more recent fears during the street wars and magic upheavals seemed to have disappeared in the light of the new prosperity. There was even a light, mischievous tone to the street haggling over prices which had never been there during the old days of desperation. As he walked and listened. Saliman allowed himself a rare, leisurely moment of envy. It seemed so simple to earn your living that way . - . stock and customers, straightforward transactions where the biggest worry was price-setting and the rent. How many years had he worked for Jubal now? Did any of these people appreciate or even suspect the amount of work necessary to main- tain the crime lord's illusion of omnipresence? Take this morning's exercise for example. His instructions had been simple enough: Two slaves of a given description, or rather one of a given description and the other a specific, known individual, were to be pur- chased from a ship where they were being held before that ship set sail. SLAVE TRADE 231 There had been no explanation as to how Jubal knew of their captivity or reason given for their rescue, just the instruction to effect their release and to deliver them to Jubal with a minimum of disruption or attention. It would have been a simple enough matter, if it weren't for the short deadline for his work. First, there had been a matter of arranging for operating capital at an hour when no goldsmith or moneylender was functioning. Then someone had to be sent to fetch a wagon and driver to meet him at the ship while he prepared for the visit by learning all he could about the slaver he was to deal with. Though in this case it had proved unnecessary, the information that the slaver had a favorite mis- tress in town could have proved invaluable if he had proved to be difficult to negotiate with. A timely kidnapping would have given Saliman all the leverage he would need to effect the rescue . . . and of course, that contingency had had to be arranged as well. The men standing by near the mistress's dwelling would have to be paid for their time as well as their skills, even though the latter had not been called on. Fortunately Saliman's records on the night shift of the city guard were up to date, though the recent reorganization had thrown everything into a cocked hat for a while. He knew who was on duty, what their patrol patterns were, who was lax and who was bribable, so the return journey from the wharf could be routed to best avoid interference or questions. It might seem a minor thing, but the recent rash of slaver kidnappings had set the watch on edge, and Saliman had no desire to purchase the two men only to be accused of kidnapping them himself. Yes, it would be nice to be able to do business openly and simply. Boring perhaps, but nice. Saliman smiled at the thought, then dismissed it. The truth was, he enjoyed his work. If anything, his administrative duties had doubled when Jubal moved his organization underground, and the challenge and excitement generated by the simplest of tasks, like the release of two slaves, was payment in itself . . , though his actual salary was nothing to be ashamed of. Being close to the crime lord meant not only having an overview of everything that happened in town, but actually having a hand in shaping events as well. It was a fascinating job. One Saliman wouldn't give up for the world. His thoughts amused and occupied him all the way to his destination ... the delivery entrance of The House of Whips and Chains. This brothel was perhaps the most dubious member of Sanctuary's Street of Red Lanterns, catering to the most bizarre and jaded tastes of a notori- ously tasteless town. Even so, it would be strange to have an open wagon pull up to the front door, and as such the use of the delivery door was a must. Even here, or, perhaps, especially here, the streets had eyes and it did not pay to relax one's vigilance. 232 UNEASY ALLIANCES The thief had been released from his sack and was being held, still bound and gagged, between two retainers. Saliman noticed that the youth's eyes were alert and wary, and assumed that whether it was drugs or seasickness which had caused the earlier dullness, it had since worn off. There was no sign of the brothel's women; caution or the hour con- fined them to their rooms. Also, there was no sign of the second slave, which he assumed meant that Jubal was currently occupied with the interview. This last assumption, however, turned out to be incorrect. "He wants you upstairs, third door," one of the retainers greeted him flatly. "You're to take this one with you." So Jubal had finished with the other slave already and was waiting . . . impatiently from the sounds of it. Saliman fought back the urge to grimace and simply nodded as he motioned for the thief to precede him up the stairs. Any indication of difficulty or disunity within Jubal's forces had to be hidden from outsid- ers. He had worked too hard teaching new recruits the necessity of main- taining that illusion to shatter it himself. His charge paused in front of the indicated door, and he reached past to rap sharply on the door with a knuckle. The particular rhythm he used signaled that he wasn't alone, but when several moments passed without a call to wait, he opened the door and ushered the thief inside. The room was dark, one of the windowless, possibly soundproof cham- bers of the house. The only light came from a small brazier filled with glowing embers from which protruded the handle of a branding iron. There were shackles on the wall, and a low sofa where one could recline comfortably while watching the branding process. "Close the door." JubaTs voice came from one of the comers the light didn't reach. Saliman obeyed, smiling at his employer's invariable flair for the dra- matic. "Remove his bonds.'* Again Saliman moved to comply, this time twirling a blade from its hiding place in his sleeve. He made the move deliberately showy. The thief had a reputation for knives. It wouldn't hurt him to know there were others in Sanctuary who prided themselves on their blade-handling ability. As he reached for the gag, however, the youth beat him to it, ungagging himself with hands that were somehow free from the ropes that had secured them. Though Saliman showed no reaction, he knew the thief had won this particular round of showing off. So did Shadowspawn, who shot him a mocking glance as he tossed the gag and ropes aside. It seemed doubtful the two would become fast friends. SLAVE TRADE 233 "Hanse . . . sometimes called Shadowspawn," Jubal said, moving into the light of the brazier. "Do you know who I am, thief?" The youth folded his arms across his chest, his stance arrogant and rebellious. "We've never met, but it's easy to figure who you are. You're Jubal, right? You're older than I thought." Saliman winced at the thief's brazen mockery of Jubal's spell-aged body, but the crime lord seemed to take no offense. "True, we've never met. In fact, you're one of the few of the local talent who never approached me for work, or at least to sell information. I was always curious as to why." "I work alone," Hanse shrugged. "Besides, I'm choosy about my friends." "Not too choosy, if your friends include the likes of Tempus Thales," Jubal retorted, his voice hardening. "And as for being your own man . . ." He lifted the iron from the brazier. "... I fear that came to a halt when the slavers took you. You're mine now. Bought and paid for." Saliman expected Hanse to flinch, but the thief was uncowed. Though his eyes followed the iron, his voice was firm and confident. "You aren't going to brand me," he said, more as a statement than a defiant challenge. "I'm not?" "You don't have to untie me to brand me," Hanse pointed out. "If anything, the process would be easier if I were still tied. That means you want to talk. All right. Quit waving that iron around and let's talk. What is it you want?" Jubal stared at the thief for long moments before returning the iron to the brazier. Saliman could understand why. There was nothing in their record to indicate Hanse possessed the intelligence he was now display- ing. He wondered if this would mean a change in Jubal's plans. "You've changed, thief," the crime lord said at last. "What happened while you were gone to change you?" For the first time since removing his bonds, Shadowspawn seemed to falter. "I ... I'd rather not talk about it." "Very well," Jubal nodded. "Shall we get down to business?" Interesting, Saliman thought. The thief doesn't fear the branding iron, but his recent past makes him uncomfortable. Though Jubal did not look his way or give any other indication, he knew he was expected to make 234 UNEASY ALLIANCES note of Shadowspawn's apparent vulnerability and investigate it as soon as possible. "How did you know where I was?" Hanse said suddenly. "I have many sources of information." Jubal waved deprecatingly. "That particular piece of news came to me from the S'danzo." "The S'danzo?" the thief frowned. "I didn't know you had any friends among the S'danzo." "I don't," the crime lord acknowledged without rancor. "But now at least a few of them owe me a favor for arranging your freedom. No, the information came from one of your friends." "My friends?" "Two of them, actually," Jubal added, apparently relishing the thief's surprise. "One of them, the older, sensed your danger and went to the younger, the blacksmith's wife, to divine your specific location. Hers was the added price of freeing the other slave as well . . . a favor to another client, I believe. Anyway, realizing time was short, they passed word to me, asking for my intervention in your behalf." Saliman was listening attentively. This was the first he knew of the source of this morning's exercise. Learning it now, he realized why Jubal had been so eager to have this mission completed, and completed effi- ciently. He knew a moment's pride that the crime lord had turned to him as his first choice for crucial work, then returned to his analysis. The S'danzo were tight-knit and mutually supportive. Jubal had been trying for years to find a chink in their armor, and now their desperation over the welfare of a thief had delivered opportunity into his hands. Saliman wondered briefly of the price exacted for his work. Had Juba! demanded guarantees and assurances, or had he risked it all on perform- ing this favor gratis, preferring to leave the repayment unspecified and therefore open. Probably the latter. Jubal had gained much of his power from Just such favors owed in return for his help at key moments. "Then I'm free to go?" Hanse said uncertainly, glancing again at Saliman. "I didn't say that." Jubal smiled. "But you said the S'danzo paid for you to have me freed." "What I said was, they asked me to free you from the slavers. That's been done. However nothing was said about freeing you from me ... and I happen to have need of your services myself." "Since when did you need help to steal something," Shadowspawn sneered, his old arrogance back. "I don't, thief. At least, not from the likes of you," Jubal replied coldly. "There is, however, a task you can perform for me in return for your complete freedom . . . one involving someone who trusts you." SLAVE TRADE 235 "I'm a thief, not an assassin," the youth snapped proudly. The crime lord raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "Reluctant to kill. are you? Strange, I don't recall your showing any reluctance the night you helped Tempus kill four of my men." Even in the brazier's glow Saliman could see the thief blanch. HI___H "You do remember, don't you? That night outside the Lily Garden? Or perhaps you thought I didn't know about it." "They attacked us. It was self-defense," Shadowspawn seemed suddenly aware of the hot iron again. "They were trying to punish Tempus for murdering their comrades . . . and stop him from continuing his sport of hunting Hawkmasks, of course," Jubal intoned. "I know you had no choice, however. Otherwise I wouldn't have left your killings without response." He paused to study the thief. "Now, if I thought you had a hand in freeing Tempus from Kurd's, I might not be so generous in my treatment of you." Saliman kept a blank expression as he watched the tl]ieftry to hide his discomfort. It was clear that Hanse was unsure if Jubal was truly igno- rant of his part in Tempus's escape, or if he was simply being toyed with. His fear of the crime lord was great enough, however, that he wouldn't risk Jubal's possible wrath by openly admitting his guilt. Saliman knew, however, that now that fear was foremost in the thief's mind, they could get down to business. "That's all behind us now. Rest assured I don't need you to kill any- one," Jubal said smoothly, as if reading Saliman's thoughts. "Actually, all you have to do to win your freedom is to arrange a meeting for me." "A meeting?" "Yes. With Prince Kadakithis. I believe he's a friend of yours?" The thief was clearly off balance now. "How did you know that?" Jubal smiled. "I've been aware of it for some time. I would suggest, however, if you want it kept secret, that you try to keep the Prince from shouting about it in public . . . like, from the top of brick piles?" Hanse flinched at the memory, but gathered himself to rally back. "Why do you want to meet with him? I'd have to tell him something." "Probably not. I believe my name is not exactly unknown to him. Still, if it will ease things, tell him I have a business proposition for him." "What kind of a proposition?" Jubal turned back to the brazier and poked at the coals with the iron as he answered 236 UNEASY ALLIANCES "There's a civil war coming, thief. Not a local upheaval like we've just survived, an Empire-wide struggle. Even you should be able to see that. This town's only hope of success is to rally behind one leader . . . and right now Kadakithis would seem to be that leader. I plan to offer him my services . - . mine and my organization's. I believe we can aid him as an intelligence network, providing information and, if need be, stilling dissenting voices. I think even Vashanka's priest would admit our value in that capacity." The crime lord turned to face the thief. "All you have to do is arrange the meeting. Unfortunately, my position makes it difficult, if not impossible, to approach him through normal channels. Arrange it, and you may go free." "What if I agree and just keep going?" "I'll find you," Jubal said calmly. "More important, until you've dis- charged your obligation to me, you'll be my slave. Legally, bought and paid for. I don't have to brand you." The crime lord tossed the iron back into the brazier to illustrate his point. "You'll know it, and I'll know it. I think that knowing you're not your own man, that you belong to me, will mark you more than I could ever do with a branding iron." Saliman was not so sure, but he had learned to trust Jubal's judgment when it came to people- Watching the thief ponder the proposal, he began to believe anew. "What if the Prince doesn't agree? He's changed since I've been gone. There's no guarantee I can convince him if he isn't interested in your offer." "All I ask is that you try." Jubal grimaced. "If he refuses, then I'll let you buy your freedom ... for five hundred in gold." Shadowspawn's head came up. "Five hundred? That's not enough!" Jubatlaughed. "I should think you'd be more likely to argue the price was too high, especially considering what we paid for you. Still, if it will make you feel better, I could name a higher figure." Shadowspawn shook his head. "You could double it ... triple it even and it would be too low." "I know," Jubal said solemnly. "The price always sounds low to a slave. It's because he thinks of his worth as a man, while the buyer and seller see him only as merchandise." Saliman could see the crime lord's thoughts turning to his own begin- nings in the gladiator pens, but then Jubal seemed to shake off the memo- ries as he continued. SLAVE TRADE 237 "The price stands at five hundred," he stated, eyeing the thief. "Frankly, I'd rather you concentrated on arranging the meeting. That is priceless to me." "I'll see what I can do. Can I go now?" "One more thing. While you belong to me, I feel a certain responsibil- ity for your safety. Here." The crime lord produced an oilskin-wrapped package from within his tunic and tossed it to Shadowspawn. Opening it, the thief found a famil- iar assortment of knives and throwing stars. "I wouldn't ask you to walk the streets of Sanctuary unarmed. You'll probably feel more comfortable with your weapons. In case you're won- dering, a man named Tarkle was selling them." "I know," the thief growled, settling the glittering bits of death in their customary places. "I recognized his voice when they loaded me on the ship." Saliman had to hide his smile. Obviously Jubal had planned this sur- prise as the climax to the interview ... a final demonstration of his access to secret information. The thief had already known the secret, but luckily Shadowspawn was so preoccupied with his knives that he didn't realize how anti-climactic the announcement was. "Well, whatever you're thinking will have to wait until after you've seen the Prince," Jubal ordered irritably. "I didn't go to all this trouble to lose you in an alley brawl. Remember, for the time being at least, you're not your own man- You're mine." "Oh, I'll remember. Believe me, I'll remember." Saliman felt a sudden chill as Shadowspawn met the crime lord's look with a gaze that was not at all subservient. THE BEST OF FRIENDS C. J. Cherryh Morning on the streets of Sanctuary, a cold, knife's edge wind that rattles at shutters prudently closed in the thief-plagued maze, and drizzle comes on that wind, to slick the stones and darken the aged wood and make muck out of the filth that lies in every crack and crevice of the cobbles. Citizens stir out, nonetheless. A body has to, who wants to eat. Every- one goes cloaked and muffled, from the beggars in their grime-colored rags, to the well-to-do factor on his way to the wharfside warehouses. Thus Amhan Nas-yeni, an ordinary sort of man, a man with a nobody face and a nobody shock of dark hair beneath the hood, neither tall nor short, stout nor thin. Nas-yeni goes at a moderate pace in these streets, cloaked and muffled, and quite unremarkable among the average Ilsigis of better than average means, merchants, shopkeepers, traders and smiths. In fact he is a tradesman and still solvent, despite the recent chaos that saw blood, not rainwater, running in the gutters of the town—some might say, because of that chaos, which needed supply of weapons and other such illicit things, as well as licit ones, to people who could pay not always with coin, but sometimes in protection, sometimes in elimination of threats, sometimes in liberated goods that had the stamp of Rankene military on them, but there was always a market. There was always a market, that was what Nas-yeni would say. He walked a careful line, did Amhan Nas-yeni, and walked it with, in his own estimation, scrupulous integrity: a man of honor. A man of principles. THE BEST OF FRIENDS 239 A man who loved his son, and who had warned him; at the same time he understood young idealists, and was proud of him. "Be sensible," he had told his son. "Trade is the way to power." And his son Beruth: "Trade! When the Rankene pigs tax us to the bone and confiscate our shipments!" "Did I say, compliance?" he had said. "Did I say, stupidity?" Tapping the side of his head. "Brains, young hothead. Trade is an art of the mind. Trade is an art of compromise—" "Compromise! With Rankan pigs?" "—In which you contrive each time to make a profit. In which you use your head, young man." "When they use the sword. No, papa. Not when they can just take everything. Not when they don't have to play the game. Not with the sword only in their hands. You fight your way. I'll fight mine- We're both right." With that light in his eye and that half-smile that haunted a father's sleep. Like the way he had found him two days later, where the Rankans had thrown the body, out on the rubbish heap where birds, in those dark days, gathered in black, carrion-hunting clouds. Beruth had had no eyes, then. And what else they had done to him before the birds got to him . . . Nas-yeni had fought his war of trade then. Had stripped himself to the bone, not selling, at the last, but giving away everything that he had to the rebels, paying out coin and weapons and supply to hire men who would find Rankans to question, to find out one thing, only one thing: who. Who, because the why of it did not matter. He was Ilsigi. He was an honorable man, the way Ilsigis had been, before Ilsigis tried to trade with Rankan lords who had a sword, when they did not. He was of a very old family. He remembered, as many Ilsigis no longer did, the entire tale of his ancestors and the worth of them. He remembered, as even he had forgotten for a while, until his son reminded him, that blood is worth everything in the world; and that once that debt is made, only blood can pay it. Their names, he had asked of his informants. Give me their names. And the answer came back, finally: The Stepsons Critias and Straton. He began then, to leam everything that he could leam about these two names. He learned their partnership in the Sacred Band. He learned what this meant. He learned their wamames and their histories, as much as his informers could extract from gossip and the talk of Rankan soldiers in bars and whorehouses. He wanted more than their deaths. He wanted revenge. He wanted 240 UNEASY ALLIANCES their ruin, their slow, suffering ruin, of a sort that would erode the soul, such a soul as such butchers might have; and he wanted them to fear, at the last, the way their victims had feared them, with a sickening, hopeless fear. Therefore he had held his hand from Straton, when his informants told him Straton's soul was already in pawn—to a witch. Therefore he had sweated in agony, seeing the Stepsons ride north and Critias ride with them: therefore he had prayed nightly to the darkest of gods for the saving of one Stepson from war and from the chances of war—and for the weaving of spells about the other, spells that should damn him to hell and bring Critias—the stiff-necked, hard-handed Critias, straight from war and arriving bloody-minded in a town rife with ensorcelments, a town Straton commanded—bring Critias back with a vengeance, oh, yes, the man of war to the man bespelled, his partner, his—lover, doubtless, in the way of Sacred Band partners: Nas-yeni knew every detail he could glean of the Sacred Band, studied them, obsessively, the way he had once studied his rivals in business, and studied, most particularly, this Pair, their reputations, their manner, the time of their sleeping and eating and the look on their faces . . . even that, because he had been near them, oh, often, that he had stood so close to one or the other of them, had brushed against them in crowds, had looked once in Straton's very eyes as they collided, unexpected— —eyes that looked into my son's eyes. eyes that had no pity, eyes looking out of Hell now, is it, murderer? I could take you. I could slip a knife into you and watch those eyes go, oh, so shocked and frightened. . . . But far too quick, far, far too quick. Good day to you, Rankan. Good day and gods protect you, Rankan, against any chance of the streets. He had smiled at Straton, friendly as could be. And the Rankan, with whatever burdened his conscience, whatever hate, whatever distrust of Ilsigis who smiled at him, had looked confused and angry that an Ilsigi had touched him. Perhaps . . . expecting that knife in the gut. Often, on the street, once Straton settled into pattern, in those dark days, when only a fool would observe patterns—but Straton went befud- died in those days, befuddled and more and more hell-ridden—Nas-yeni would smile at him, that same, secret smile that had everything of obse- quiousness in it—Hail, our conqueror. How brave of you, to ride among us, morning and evening, mazy-eyed and bewitched. Do you know me yet? His mother always said Beruth had my eyes, my mouth. But he would not have smiled at you. THE BEST OF FRIENDS 241 His mother died, do you know. in the winter. Took to her bed. Never smiled again. Just died. She took all the drugs I bought, one dose. I owe you so much. Stepson. Truly I do. They say the Stepsons are coming back to Sanctuary. Critias . . . is coming home. What will you say to him, my friend? What will you tell him about this town you rule? Who will you sleep with. then? And how will the Riddler deal with you? Every morning, every evening. One of the crowd. Part of the crowd when Critias rode in, grim and hard—hard and soldierly, where Straton had grown fey, and strange. Where Straton served Her who was whispered about only rarely and in the lowest of tones among the few Ilsigis who knew they had a Patron, of sorts- It confused even Nas-yeni. But the torment, the absolute hell in Straton's look nowadays—that satisfied him. So did the rumors of estrangement. And to help it along, he took to the skills of his youth—set up an archery butt in the warehouse now largely depleted of goods, but enough for a man to live on, who did not plan to live forever. He had been a damned fine shot, in his youth, in the time that he had spent in the city guard. The hand and the eye remembered. Hate might make the one tremble. Grief might blur the eye. But purpose—that was clear and cold. Critias was back. Straton was in ruin already: one of the Pair was broken, and too difficult to predict. Eliminate him. From a rooftop. In a way that an assassin could escape, and lay guilt upon the other Partner, and fear on all their company. It was what Beruth would have done, it was his kind of vengeance; it had sharp, keen savor, the drawing of that arrow—blue-fletched, Jubal's colors, not because Nas-yeni had any particular grudge against the ex-slaver, but because it might make the maximum of trouble- And the wind being what it was, and Straton's damned horse in the way— But it had hit, all the same, and created havoc beyond Nas-yeni's own imagining—delivered Straton wounded, into the hands of enemies who had not handled him gently, by all accounts; and crippled him; while Tempus, displeased with a city block in ruins and with the rise ofwitchly influences in his ranks, one supposed, demoted him. And departed, leaving, the gods be thanked, Critias in command of a city Straton had lusted after, Straton crippled and drinking himself stu- 242 UNEASY ALLIANCES porous night after night in the Vulgar Unicorn, Straton with so much witch-sign about him that he was notorious, and even footpads refrained from cutting his throat on his drunken wanderings to and from the bar- racks or the bars. They refrained because the word was out in the under- world of Sanctuary that this man was protected, and that throats would be cut if this man's was. Things were altogether as Nas-yeni would have them: one enemy in a living hell, banished even from the witch's bed, living because no one was friend enough to kill him; and the other—the other— There was no more to be done to Straton. There was Critias . . . safe as yet, newly set into an office that Tempus had given him, perhaps with a sense that here was the only place that Straton might stay alive and Critias the only man who might have a chance to heal him: that much understanding Nas-yeni had of his ene- mies as he had had of his rivals in trade, canny trader that he had been, and smuggler, and judge of men. It was a fool who failed to see his enemy as man like any man, needing the things a man needed, like companion- ship, like solace, like—the illusions of these things, where the substance failed. By such things a trader lived and prospered; by such things, the likes of Straton and Critias worked on their victims, breaking their confi- dence as they broke the body. By such things a man could unravel another. A hunter had to be his own prey. They were locked together in this hunt, which had achieved a certain intimacy. Nas-yeni who had no fam- ily, had two men whose every thought he surmised, whose every move he could now predict; they kept him from loneliness, they kept his heart beating and the blood moving in his veins; they gave him something to think about and to look forward to, something which made him very glad his shots had gone amiss. First Straton. Now Critias. Critias—who already suffered. He might simply live and watch Critias, watch the slow embitterment of a man left to a town which hated him. But he knew this man like a son. He knew that such embitterment would leach the feeling out of a man like Critias; knew that some morning Straton would simply turn up dead of drink or some mischance no bribe could save him from, and Critias would be sorry and relieved, and the boil would be lanced, that was all, the pain stopped. That would never do. A change in fortunes for Critias, the man facing all directions; and absolute hell for Straton, the man who had lost his way. The very plan was an indulgence approaching the sensual for a man who had restrained THE BEST OF FRIENDS 243 himself so long, so very long, and nightly prayed for his enemies, that they go on living. And it was so easy, for a man so like every other man in Sanctuary, to the eyes of the invaders. Wind and rain spatter at the eaves, rattle the shutters and bring cold into the room where Moria dresses, hastily, in the stink and the squalor of the tenement she shares with Stilcho, late oflschade's service. A gray, dim light reaches the bed where Stilcho rests, drugged with what krrfshe can buy him—sleep, peace which she can buy him, who has so little peace nowadays. He is so handsome, so very beautiful to her whose beauty a mage gave her, whose beauty, Rankene-fair, Haught bespelled with stolen magic; Stilcho's, she had never seen—had been terrified of him, whom Ischade had raised from the dead; she had dreaded the sight of him, shrunk from the chance touch of his hand, which in those days had been chill, had seen only his scars, which the beggar-king had given him, a Stepson, in the long, long night that he had been the beggar-king's prisoner, and they had taken out his right eye, and were about to take the other when Ischade had intervened. Ischade had claimed him then, since the Stepsons would not have him, a walking dead; and Ischade, whose curse took the life of her lovers, (except Strat, gods only knew why but Moria made guesses) had taken Stilcho in Straton's stead on those terrible nights when the black mood was on her, and she evaded Straton and drove all her servants from her presence—except Stilcho, on whom the curse fell with all its force, who could die, and die, and die, because she had strings on his soul, and could pull it up again from hell— Moria had seen him on such mornings, had seen his face and shud- dered at that look, that bleak terror, that awful intensity with which he would sit and feel of things, the table, the texture of the cloth, the flesh of his arm—as if it were precious and all too fragile. She had heard him scream—had heard him, as no woman should hear a man, break down in tears and plead with Ischade, not again, not again, no more— She had shuddered at the mere sight of him in those days. But those arms, however chill, had been there to hold her when her own world came tumbling down. And his goodness, his loyalty, had touched even Ischade's sense of justice: she had brought him all the way back. She had set him free—free as a man could be, who had suffered what he had, and who still waked screaming of nights, seeing hell, and demons. UNEASY ALLIANCES 244 Krrf gave him peace. Krrf let him lie safe from his devils—so, so good to see, his quiet sleep, his face that was always so pale, at rest, the patched eye and the fall of dark hair, all that was dark about him: the rest was light, white-washed in the light that, like the chill wind, came through the shutter slats. She tied a ragged brown scarf about her blonde hair. And from its place in the corner, disguised with clay, she took a lump that was heavier than any rock ought to be, a lump that weighed like sin—or pure gold. She put it in the ratty basket she had, along with some rags of laundry, She was very careful going out the door, and left the latchstring inside, so only he could open it. He would know, she feared, when he woke. The first thing he would check would be that comer where they hid the lump she had salvaged from the Peres house. Last night she had begged him to let her take it to old Gorthis, who would give her, she argued, fair price for it. He had fenced for the gangs, back before the war. She knew Gorthis, that he was an honest fence, at least, he gave the fairest rates in Sanctuary. He need not suspect that it was Ischade's gold. No, Stilcho had said, absolute and angry. No! What do you want? she had cried, too loudly, in this damned tenement where every sound found other ears. Us to starve? Better that than some things, he had said, his hands hard on her shoulders, his voice the lowest of whispers. Moria, Moria, it's too danger- ous, the damned thing's too big! It's too much! Your fence can't afford a lump like that, he can't pay you, he'll cheat you or he'll rob you, one or the other, damn it all, Moria, you can't take that thing through the streets' He was close to panic. His grip hurt her shoulders and the fear in him frightened her, who knew what his panics were like, how bad they were, how unreasoning and how difficult for her to bear, old nightmares, old memories (not so many months ago) of Stilcho's voice shrieking terror through the river house, haunting all their nights. A woman could not take that, in the man she loved. She did not want to remember that. She did not want him to break, who was at once so strong and so fragile. We'll melt it down, he said. When? she cried at him, and sucked in her breath and bit her lip. They had been over that territory. It was what he always promised whenever she talked about selling it- It took a fire bigger than they could raise in their apartment to melt a lump like that. They could not heat it and hammer it. The walls would carry every sound. The smell would go through the cracks and the gaps. There would be outcries: fire was the eternal terror in the tenements, and neighbors would come hammering THE BEST OF FRIENDS 245 on the door demanding answers, threatening them with violence, because they already knew that her man was . . . peculiar, and likely a fugitive mage: that was the whisper about him that she had heard, a dangerous kind of whisper, because mages were trouble, and a block of Sanctuary in ashes had proved it to the town at large. And so, so easily in a place like this, a rumor could get started that would damn them both, and have their apartment broken into. Or their throats cut. She would go to Gorthis. He would take the tump and set up an account for her, and there would be no money, except what it took to get a better place to live, and then the things they needed, and the lease of a shop—a little shop, that was what she wanted with that gold. A liveli- hood for herself and her man where he could find the quiet he needed to forget, and shutters and a stout door she could bar against the dark, where She walked, and hunted. Down the stairs, out onto the streets, a woman with a basket of rags, a woman with a scarf over her head and a heavy shawl and long skirts to disguise her youth and her looks. Uptown, like some cleaning woman going to work, for some middling- well-to-do family not rich enough for servants. She was legion, in the midtown of Sanctuary: cook or maid, respectable enough and not solicit- ing, and not a mugger in the town would waste time on her, when there was richer prey abroad. Straton slid from the saddle and caught himself, hanging from the bay's stirrup-leather, a little short of impaling himself on the iron spikes that thrust up through Ischade's hedge. The bay whickered, swung its head around and nosed at him with the roughness a big horse could use —warm, warm, not like Crit said, a dead thing, nor hell-spawned. /; loved him. He took it for omen. He clung to that omen, that Ischade who had withdrawn every sign of gentleness toward him, did not take the horse back, but left it with him, left him one gift of hers, at least, which had no hidden thom. He wept against the bay's neck, standing there in the rain, both of them wet and chilled. He was very drunk. And he knew that he ought to get back on the horse and ride, quickly- But he did not. He pushed himself away from the warmth of the horse and staggered a step to the gate. The cold of the iron burned his hand. A rose thorn pricked his thumb and he carried his hand unconsciously to his mouth and sucked at the blood that welled up. The gate swung inward and the way lay open through the yard, the UNEASY ALLIANCES 246 maze of hip-high and scraggly weeds, the thornbushes and black, skeletal trees that all but obscured the little house, the gray stone porch. He went, staggering a little and desperately trying to balance himself between the drunkenness it needed to come this far and the sobriety he had to muster to deal with her. The thumb still bled, when he looked at it, and he wiped it on his breeches and looked up again at the door just in front of him, hearing the give of the hinges. The sight of her hit him in the gut—so beautiful, all dark and light, her black dress blowing in the gusts, her square-cut hair flying like smoke about her face, about dark eyes that seized on his soul and threatened to uproot it. "Ischade—" His jaw refused to work without his teeth chattering. He was cold through. The wind bit like a knife, here so much in the open, on the high shore of the White Foal. And there was no promise of yielding in the look she gave him. "Ischade, I hurt, I hurt so damned bad—" He held his arm, and the pain was there, even through the alcohol, worse, in the rain and the cold; aching so he could not sleep. "You healed the damn horse, can't you help me?" "There are physicians." "For Vashanka's sake, Ischade—" "Vashanka didn't help Tempus. I doubt he has power here." "Damn you!" "Better men have tried. Leave, Strat. Now." He stood there, shivering, his teeth chattering and the pain in his shoulder a dull, bone-deep ache, the way it had been for days and nights of this weather, the way the pain got into bone and brain, and he wished he had the courage to kill himself, but he kept holding out some idiot hope that someone, somewhere made this pain worthwhile. He had had her. He had had Crit. Neither one was acting sane. Neither one had acted sane for months. A man who had been loved once and twice in his life— went on expecting more of it, and believing things could be right again; a man who had seen the two people he most respected—yes, dammit, re- spected, for all she was a damn woman—in the whole universe . . . lose their minds and act like lunatics—kept expecting that they would wake up one morning with their wits about them and come to him and tell him they were sorry. A man couldn't kill himself, whose world was that badly skewed. A man could not go—wherever he had damned himself to go—with his whole universe gone crazy and right and wrong all tangled; most of all with the faith (still) that if he could just hold on, if he could just beat reason into one of them, that everything would somehow sort itself out. THE BEST OF FRIENDS 247 "Ischade, dammit, I didn't mean what I did! I didn't understand! Is- chade. dammit, it's enough, it's parking enough, open the damn door!" That was his voice, cracking and breaking like a teenaged boy's. That was himself, on his hands and knees in the wet weeds, because the world had suddenly spun around to the left, and gone black a moment, and he had landed there, and hurt his shoulder in the process. He nerved himself to push, and got the arm up against him and one foot and then the other under him, and turned and walked back to the gate, thinking that was about as far as he could walk before he fell down and lay there and froze to death in the rain. But he did not. He made it to the bay horse, and hung there against its warmth a while till he could get his breath back- Take him, why don't you?" he muttered to the hedge, the unnatural roses, the witch who had his soul in pawn. "You've taken everything else, Take him and be damned to you." If she heard him, in her sorcerous ways of being aware of everything near the wards, she gave no sign. The bay horse stood rock-steady for him to mount, and bore him away, where it chose:, he did not care whether it was a shelter or over the cliffs: let it choose. The White Foal, beyond the trees, was roiled and muddy, and looked friendlier than the town did. Ischade sat down, at the table in the house that was somehow larger inside than outside, and which had more rooms and windows than ap- peared from outside. She sat in her cluttered living room, where the cloaks of former lovers, like torn moths' wings, gave riotous color to the floor, the couch, the chairs, the bed, cloaks and bright cloth and here and there a trinket which a careless foot might tread upon and break ... of no interest to her these days, these gray and deadly days- She rested her elbows on the table and her face within her hands, and went into that nowhere place which she had learned to find within her- self, as the Stepson Niko had had it, that inner landscape which in her case was a maze of many doors, each one with a key and a lock. The hallway was safe. It had turnings and there were dark places, and there were doors that rattled ominously and clamored with lost voices, doors which weakened if she thought of the thing behind them- So she did not. But somewhere, somewhere down the hall, there was a door still open. She knew that there was. She sensed it. And it was in that darkness far down the hall, where she did not willingly go. She might go up to that door and try to slip up on it and slam it quickly and lock it. But she was paralyzed with dread of it, that what was inside would remain tranquil 248 UNEASY ALLIANCES for years if she did not attempt it. There would be time. There would be time to gather strength— There was a room within which was treasure. A blue fragment spun within that room, power, secret power, filched from the ruin of magic in Sanctuary. She had hid it within herself, in that place where no other mage could go without killing her, and she, by the very curse that created her, could not die. There was that place far away in the dark, where something waited— almost she could see it, red-eyed and smiling at her within that room at the end of the hall. And there were the doors behind which she had shut away everyone who trusted her. She held those keys. She kept them in the room with the fragment of the Globe of Power. It was her virtue, her sole virtue, that she listened to their rattling and their clamor at her sanity, when everything in her ached to let them out, to have them with her, vulnerable to that thing that waited down there, in the dark. Especially Straton- You healed the damn horse, couldn't you help me? She hurt inside. Heal him—yes. And prove to him by that, that she had not forsaken him, that there was hope for him and her. And after that, after that— She saw him lying still as all her other lovers, by morning light. It was the very fact that he loved her, that would damn him. He could not, now, take his healing as a kindness. No, to him, it would be an absolution. It would bring him to her as he had been—but more insistent, more him- self, more violent and more desperate to prove his manhood after what he had suffered— —and that was the very thing that would kill him. That was the nature of her curse. The thing in the dark snickered filthily. // knew. It was amused by her helplessness, when she was one who held what it wanted. Go to Randal, she thought. Seek help in the Mageguild. But that would precipitate things for which she was not yet ready. She knew that she was not ready and would not be ready perhaps for years. She was far too unbalanced now. The tides of need and satiation which ruled her with the changing moon—were running too high, too violent. She prowled the Maze and the Downwind and sometimes the high streets near the palace, and dead happened, happened with more frequency than made her feel safe with anything she valued. THE BEST OF FRIENDS 249 She needed, that was the unpalatable truth, needed sex the way Strat needed drink, to deal with the dark and the pain. And she wanted him—so damnably much. The thing—was there again. Stilcho saw it, the red eyes glowing in the murk, the smile like a smug face lit from inside, leaking red light at nostrils and mouth and blazing behind the eyes like hell itself. It grinned, and the terror of that waked him with a yell that was still dying in his ears as he sat up, sweat-drenched and ashamed and expect- ing Moria's arms to hold him, Moria's voice to bid him hush, hush, and rest, Moria's lips to kiss him and whisper that he was safe. "Shut up!" came the yell from somewhere else in the building. "Shut it up, dammit!" He propped himself against the wall, blinked and shivered in the draft against his bare skin, still krrf-fogged and searching dazedly for Moria. Not there. She must have gone out to market. But they were out of money. Flat broke, except— • Except— "Ogods." He scrambled out of bed. He went to the corner and looked amid the junk and the clutter. Not there. The gold was gone- So was Moria. And he knew where. Gorthis's shop was still shuttered at this hour, but he was stirring about inside by now, Moria knew his habits. The shop was on the lower floor of his apartment, in the building that he owned, and Gorthis, being more than prudent, never left his jewelry downstairs in the shop at night. He packed everything up and brought it upstairs, where a pair of vicious dogs guarded the upstairs halls. In spite of the fact that no thief in Sanctuary tended to prey on a fence, whose good will was important as sunrise—such precautions were neces- sary because there was always the disgruntled customer. Or the rival. Moria seized the bellpull, of the doorbell in the shape of a smiling Shipri—better, she thought in the hysterical humor that came of having gotten this far unmolested with her cargo, that it should be Shalpa, god of thieves. The bell chimed inside, and she waited, her laundry basket on the doorstep, herself within the shelter of the alcove, out of the rain. The little peephole opened. She stood on tiptoe, and back a little. 250 UNEASY ALLIANCES And suddenly remembered—0 fool!—that she no longer was dark- haired Moria the thief, Mona the Ilsigi. It was a beautiful stranger stood on Gorthis's step, her blonde curls wrapped in rags, but her brows still pale, her eyes blue, and her complex- ion whiter and fairer than any Ilsigi's could be. "Gorthis," she said, "let me in." The peephole stayed opened a damned long while longer than its once- upon-a-time wont. She sensed the consternation on the other side of the door- "Who? What do you want?" "Gorthis, it's Moria. Moria. You remember me. I bribed this mage—" It was not the truth, but it was close enough to the truth, and simple enough to explain through a peephole. The peephole shut. The door opened, on a fat, huge man who looked more apt to be a blacksmith than a goldsmith. Not a hair on his head except a tuft above either ear that stuck out like some brindled monkey's ruff. He utterly filled the door. His eyes, Ilsigi-dark, were wide and wor- ried. "Moria?" "Makeup," she said, clutching her laundry basket, which had gotten heavier and heavier from block to block. "Corn' on. Gorthis, f'gawds'- sake—it's me. Moria. Mor-am's sister." He hesitated a moment longer, then backed out of the doorway and held it open for her and her basket, admitting her to the dim interior of counters and barred doors and barred sections: a goldsmith even in this section of town and in these days, had to worry, and Gorthis believed in defense. He always had. "Shalpa's ass," Moria breathed, setting down the basket and looking open-mouthed at the maze of bars, "whole Rankan army couldn't make its way through here." "Whole Rankan army ner Piffles ner any other damn pack of looters, girl, ain't nobody going to break into my place! I been respectable, I been respectable ever since the Troubles started. I ain't doing no more, so you can take yourself and whatever you got there—" "This ain't no problem, Gorthis, I swear to you it ain't." She bent and dived after the lump in the middle of the laundry, held it up in both her hands, because that was what it took. "This here's gold. Gorthis. You don't got to fence it, you don't got to tell anybody, you just use it and gimme an account here—look, look—" She set down the clay-covered lump and stripped off her headscarf, shaking out blonde curls the sort that Moria of the streets never had had. "It's still Moria," she said in purest Rankene accents, "But I've come up in the world, Gorthis, Ipass, THE BEST OF FRIENDS 251 and I need the money. Do me this favor and I won't forget it when I'm back in society." "Magery," Gorthis breathed, wide-eyed. "You been witched." "Expensive magery. And it lasts." She picked up the lump and held it toward him. "Lift it. It's a lot of gold. A lot of gold, Gorthis. No plated rock, you can test it. You'll have it. Like I said, all you have to do is pay me out a little at a time, in silver I can spend without answering ques- tions." "Shalpa and Shipri." Gorthis drew out a handkerchief and mopped his face. "They said it was you uptown. They said it was you, Mor-am come in here—trying to pawn this knife, fie said you'd gone uptown." "Where is my brother?" She did not want to know, she truly did not want to know. He was still Ischade's creature. He must always be, or suffer in terrible pain. But not to know whether he was living or dead— that uncertainty she could not bear. "Ain't seen him since. I got no idea. Lemme see that thing." She handed it to him. He hefted it. "Damn—" he said. "Told you, that's no rock inside." He took it over to a work counter, through a barred gateway to a table where a barred shutter gave a little light. She followed, anxious, biting her lip as he brought the lump down hard on the table and shattered the clay around it. Yellow gold shone in the light, veined with lines of soot. "This's melted stuff," he said. "It's not stolen." That was half a lie. She clenched her hands together. "It came from friends. They died in the riots. But I haven't got a place to melt it down. I know you're honest, Gorthis, you always were. You take your old cut, same as you always did, and you pay me out little at a time, isn't that fair?" "Wait here. I got to get something." Gorthis hurried back past her to the cage door and through it. He slammed it shut, and Moria stared at him open-mouthed in shock. But Gorthis was a little crazy about security. He always had been. She was willing to think it was that. Until he turned the key and took it. "It's my damned gold, Gorthis, I'm not going to steal it!" "You ain't going nowhere," Gorthis said, and went and pulled on the cord that rang a bell somewhere way up on the roof, a thief-bell, that called the watch. "What are you doing?" she yelled at him. She shook the bars of the UNEASY ALLIANCES 252 gate, hopeless, because Gorthis's locks were always sound. "Gorthis, have you lost your mind?" "I'm respectable," Gorthis said. "I been respectable ever since the Troubles started. I ain't getting into it any more, I got too many uptown clients." Another series of tugs at the bell rope. "Sorry, girl. Truly I am." "I'll tell them! I'll tell them who you are!" "Who are they going to believe, huh, girl, when I turn over you an' that great lump of gold to the watch? No, missy, this is going to be better fer me than fer you. I prove to 'em I changed my ways, that's what this'll do." "I have friends uptown." "No, you don't. I know what yow friends are, girl, the neighbors done talked, the neighbors what got burned out around Peres, uptown. They got a warrant out fer you, hiring mages and all, arson and murder—you know the law doesn't come down on mages, ain't no way the watch is going to arrest them. now, is they? But them as hires 'em, now, they're responsible, ain't they? You go burning the whole town down, come in here with a lump of witched gold—" "It ain't witched!" "It come from the burnin'! Ever'thing up there's witched! And I ain't makin' no jewelry out of it and sellin' it to my clients' You're goin' to the watch, girl, an' you can explain to your neighbors 'fore the magistrate what you done up there on the hill, / ain'tl" "Let me out of here! Damn you, damn you, I got friends, Gorthis, I got friends'H fry your insides, you damned snitch! I got wizard friends!" "No way," Gorthis said, pale-faced and sweating, and still ringing the bell for all he was worth. "No way you got friends like that, missy, or they'd melt that there gold for you and not need no furnace- I ain't no fool! And you're going to hang, that's what's going to happen to you—" An alarm was ringing in midtown, and Crit stopped the gray to listen. Not particularly his business: the watch and the guard responded to that sort of thing, and his own mind was on personal problems—a partner who had had a run-in with the watch last night, and who had been let go because the watch did not know what to do with him—and a Prince- Governor whose orders were getting more and more arbitrary—now the damned be-curled and perfumed prig wanted a barrel tax and wanted all the taverns in town to pay a head tax ... per customer. And he was supposed to break the news to Walegrin, whose men were supposed to make the thing work. An alarm was not the kind of thing the city commander took for a personal responsibility. But he was in a mood to crack heads. He debated THE BEST OF FRIENDS 253 it a moment, then, set the horse off at a good clip—no run, counting the slick cobbles, just a businesslike jog that cornered well enough in the twisting streets, with their ghostly drift of cloaked, hooded figures them- selves heading toward the trouble—daytime reflexes, the more so that the watch was surely on the way and folk figured there was some kind of entertainment to be had, watching the guard putter about after a thief who had probably run like hell when the bell went, and listening with delicious smugness to the shopkeeper tearing his hair and wailing ... a morning's worth of gossip, at least- And more of them would come, when they saw the city commander involved in it. Damned busybodies. He had an idea where the bell-ringing was coming from when he found the right street, about the time the bell went silent and he had an idea the watch had gotten there ahead of him. There was a jeweler hereabouts notorious for his eccentricity—and a shady past; and he saw the crowd and the waiting horses that said that matters were tolerably well under control. He almost turned the gray about to go back about his business, back to his troubles with Strat and with the Prince-Governor, figuring there was nothing here that needed intervention. But the crowd ohhhed and aaaahed to a great deal of shouting, and pressed close upon the door, where there was evidently something going on. A guardsman was trying to keep spectators out. Maybe, he thought, someone had cut the jeweler's throat. But the place was supposed to be a real obstacle course. So the rumor ran. Real crazy man. Curiosity drew him, since the morning's business was not that attrac- tive. He nosed the gray on through the crowd, figuring the guard could use a little help—might well be a few neighbors there hoping for free samples, if there had been some fracas inside and some stuff scattered. "Get out of here!" the beleaguered guard was yelling, shoving with his sheathed sword at a clutch of women who wanted to get their noses in the door. The crowd booed that, and guffawed when a fat man appeared behind the guard and screamed at them to get out of his door. "What's going on here?" Crit asked the guardsman, forcing the gray into service as a living barrier, and its teeth and the stamp of its feet made a little room. "Dunno, sir," the guardsman said. "We got a woman and a laundry basket and a damned great lump of gold old Gorthis says is witched and stolen and he locked 'er up and called the watch." The guardsman looked doubtful a second, then: "Woman looks Rankan, sir, and old Gorthis says she's a thief named Moria who lived in the Peres house, and we got a UNEASY ALLIANCES 254 warrant out on her. The corporal don't know. We got a lot of warrants. But she talks uptown." "Moria. Out ofPeres." Crit drew in a deep breath, all at once awake in this slow and nuisanceful morning. He slid down and threw the gray's reins at the guardsman as he ducked under the horse's neck and put his head into the jeweler's shop. The damn place looked like the city jail, it had so many bars. And in the clutches of a trio of guardsmen was a blonde and distraught young woman, answering questions, shaking her head furiously, no, no, and no. "Hey," he yelled, interrupting it all. The woman looked at him, and gods, it was for certain Moria, who had hosted the whole Sacred Band at the truce-feast in the Peres house. Before it ended up a pile of blackened sticks and tumbled stone. "Moria?" he asked. And listened to the whole thing over again, from the jeweler Gorthis shouting in one ear, the guard corporal shouting at Gorthis to shut up, the woman sobbing and shouting that she was inno- cent, that Gorthis was a crook who wanted her gold, which was hers, and Gorthis her enemy who had lured her here with promises of help. "Gold might be hers," Crit said slowly. "Ease up a little. Let's just all be calm, can we? Ma'am, I think you and the gold and Gorthis here better plan to spend the morning uptown and get this straightened out. They say there's a warrant out on you- I don't know about that. I know I've got a few questions. Where are you staying?" The woman's face might have been a waxen mask. An honest woman might have answered. There would not have been that desperate dart of the eyes, like something trapped. Crit had had a lot of experience, judg- ing reactions like that. He pulled out his kit and rolled himself a smoke, giving her time to answer, if she would. Then, finally, lighting the smoke from the lamp by the door. "Well, sergeant, I think you might as well take the whole damn mess uptown. You can have Gorthis. Woman goes to my office. Gold goes to your captain and it damn well better stay accounted for. Hear?" "Yessir," the sergeant said, and Crit nodded, puffed on his smoke to calm his nerves and walked as far as the door. He had a rare impulse to chivalry, and turned back to the sergeant. "Don'1 take her through the streets like that. Put a wrap on her and don't bruise her up any, all right?" "Yessir." He walked out, collected his horse and climbed up, riding out through the crowd, paying no attention to the shouted questions and the ohhhs and ahhhs and the rumors flying thick and fast. Up the street, then, THE BEST OF FRIENDS 255 where the last few shyer onlookers stood gawking, and around the cor- ner. A man fled his path. There was one with reason to avoid him. He was halfway moved to find out why, but the streets were slick and there was enough commotion hereabouts. The chance of overtaking the man was nil, without risk to the gray, and he was not about to take the chance. Dawn, and there were still some of the night-skulkers out, pickpockets, for sure, who worked their best in circumstances like the press and com- motion back there. Not his business, that. Not a soldier's business at all. He rode on his way, down the mostly deserted street, at a walk, al- ready back to the problem of the head tax. And was halfway startled when a cloaked man came out of the alley and looked up at him and ran over to him. "Officer—officer—my son, f'godssakes, my son, they stabbed my son—" "Who?" He reined in the gray, which was as like to take a piece out of the man as not. "How many of them?" The whole, damn district watch was tied down back around the corner, and a purse-cutting that went to murder was the way of things in this damn town. "Come on!" the man cried, running back for the alley—merchant, to look at him. And distraught. "Hell!" Crit threw down his smoke, gathered up his crossbow from the saddle-ties and turned the gray down the alley after him. He had wanted a head or two to crack. He was still in the market. The iron gate flared blue as Stilcho brought up against it and pushed, sweating and gasping and desperate. Witchfire stung his hands and ached in his bones, but the gate gave to his push, and he waited for no other invitation from the river house. He ran as far as the gray stone steps before slick stone and his exhaustion betrayed him: he sprawled painfully against the edge of the steps and lost his wind, fighting even so to pick himself up. "Stilcho," Her voice said, and he looked up, heart hammering, at the face that figured in so many of his bad dreams. "Stilcho?" He gathered himself up to his knees and to his feet, hanging onto the post which supported the roof. He was taller than She was, if he were not standing beside the porch and She, on it- But Her presence was over- whelming, so that all the warmth of running leached out of him, and all the months of hiding seemed useless. He was back. He had never been free. He had never owned his soul, from the night Ischade drew it back into him. 256 UNEASY ALLIANCES "The w-watch has M-Moria," he stammered, while the pain in his ribs bent him against the post that was the only thing keeping him on his feet. "They've arrested her—" "For what?" Ischade asked, a soft voice, precise, and cold. "Th-the—" 0 gods, there was no lying to Her. There could not be. He tried for breath and knew what bargain he had come to strike, a bargain for what She already owned. "The gold from P-Peres house. They say she stole it." "She did," Ischade said, that same quiet precision. "From me." He had no answer for that. It was truth. Claiming it was himself, claiming anything but what was—might end everything. "You can help her," he said. "P-Please h-help her." "She left my employ. She stole from me. Why should I intervene?" "I'll come b-back." His lips stumbled around the words. His sou! was cold to the roots, and he met that stare of hers with a vertiginous feeling that it was already sliding away from him. "1*11 come back to you." There was long silence. Then: "You and Moria," Ischade said. "Love does make fools of us, doesn't it?" "Please. Get her away from them." "I thought that Moria would come, long since, wanting her fine things and her soft bed. I least of all expected you, Stilcho. And for her sake. How touching." "My lady—" "I confess I have missed you, in more ways and for more reasons than you know." She extended her hand and touched his cheek with the backs of her fingers, a touch which—he could not help it—made him shuddei; and She could not but tell that. "A good man. And hers. Why, Stilcho? Debt of honor? Or do you love her?" "I 1-1-love her." "Poor man." She came close and folded her arms about his head, drew it against her breast. Her breath stirred his hair and he felt her gentle kiss, felt the unlikely warmth She gave despite the chill of her hands as She lifted his face. "I will help her. I will take you back. I will keep her with all the fine things she loves. You as well. And I shall be kinder. You know that there are times I cannot be." "I know that—" "She will be safe enough. I will send a message uptown. We'll do everything by town law. As the aggrieved party, I give her the gold. See? Solved. Come inside and I'll give you the paper with my seal on it. You take it to the Palace and tell them if they have any questions about it, come to me. Come. I shan't bite. You know better than that." THE BEST OF FRIENDS 257 They had brought the gray horse in from the streets—no one had dared steal it, nor any of its gear; it had wreaked havoc on a storefront and kicked a man in the gut before the watch got a couple of riders to herd it up the street and one of them was horseman enough to talk it calm and get the reins without having his fingers taken off or his horse kicked. Of Crit there was no sign at all, and Straton found himself coldly, terribly sober, interviewing everyone in the affair, no one of whom knew a damned thing, except the horse might have come from a dozen streets, all of which they were searching door to door; and as many alleys, more likely, all of which they were searching, down to the rubbish heaps and the refuse, looking for the body. Crit's bow was missing, not with the horse and not in any place he would have left it. He must have had it with him. Must have had reason to have it in hand when trouble came on him. So he had not been taken utterly off his guard. And they had still got him. Whoever it was. There had been some kind of fracas involving a goldsmith and a lot of crowd in that area. Crit had been there. Had found the woman Moria in the middle of it and she was in custody, along with the jeweler and a lump of gold. That, Strat reckoned, had nothing to do with it. Crit had ridden out of there, the guard swore to that, ridden out of there and down the street and vanished somewhere within that district, to judge by where they had first reported the loose horse. He began to build a scenario in his mind—the crowds, the likelihood of cutpurses and pickpockets, and Crit maybe spotting something— —running into trouble and ending up just a corpse someone had to get rid of, down some sewer, into some basement, under some rubbish heap: gods, Crit, to end like that, in some damned alley, in a damned police action, in something that was not his job. because Crit, being Crit, tended to be all over what he was managing— —or maybe Crit had seen someone; or someone had seen him, who had a grudge. Gods knew there were people with grudges. He had a vision of blood in the streets again, some new set of crazies with an agenda, murdering any symbol of Authority they could get their sights on. Sanctuary had seen blood and blood and blood, and it had been quiet a while, but the same damned lunatics were still in town, those some other lunatic had not killed. He felt sick at his stomach, that was what he felt, sick and helpless and scared, because he had shot his mouth off with Crit and done everything wrong he could do— —he had been stinking drunk this morning when Crit had been riding 258 UNEASY ALLIANCES the streets alone, because he had no partner he could rely on any more. And he hated himself. He despised himself. He could not figure out how he had become what he had become. As good as if he had run and left his partner to face his killers alone. That was what he had done. And if men shied off from him this morning and if he could not meet their eyes, there was reason for it. Oh damn, he wanted his hands on someone. He wanted Crit alive, he wanted Crit to come walking in that gate all right and madder than hell; and he would listen to everything Crit had to say and swear that it was right, and go back to him and make it right if Crit would have him, that was what he would do. Crit needed him, needed him in the worst way; and Ischade had thrown him out and battered his pride for the last time, he swore she had. It was over. Fin- ished. He had no more intention to go crawling to her a second time. Gods, if he'd come walking in here—lost his horse, that's all; we'd give him a hard time, he'd curse us to hell, I'd stand there and maybe he'd know without my saying a thing, know what hell I've been through—we could talk, then. Let him swear me to hell and gone, no matter, get him talking and maybe I could talk to him, the way we used to—way we used to be— A man came up on him, a guard sergeant, to report they had a man in hand, from the gate—"—asking after the woman, the one they arrested, says he can prove whose the gold is—" He had told them he wanted to know everything about everyone in- volved. He had sent a man he trusted to ask Moria if there was anything she could tell him, though he doubted it. This man was at hand. Was Stilcho. He saw Ischade's former lover, conspicuous in his shabby cloak and in the black patch which covered his missing eye. City guards hastened him along with a firm grip on his arms; and Strat's mind raced wildly, trying to make connections with facts which did not, no matter how he pushed and pulled them, fit any pattern he could understand. And damn it all, Ischade and her household were not what he wanted to deal with now. Except Stilcho was no longer Ischade's. Nor was Moria. And some- how, for some terrible reason, they were here, under this wan gray sky, with Crit missing, himself and Stilcho who had met often enough in Ischade's house; and Moria under arrest: that was at least some vestige of connection in events, but it was on the wrong problem, surely it was the wrong problem. "Stilcho," he said, and did not tell the guards to let him go. One of them handed him the paper. Ischade's spidery, elaborate hand. Her signet. To Critias, under the THE BEST OF FRIENDS 259 authority of His Imperial Highness Theron, and His Grace Kadakithis. Commander of the City: You have arrested one of my servants for posses- sion of property I gave her, to which she has legal title. The lady Moria is therefore innocent of wrongdoing. I ask for her immediate release and will thank you for your prompt and earnest attention to this matter. Under my personal seal: Ischade, herself. Straton read it through twice. To Critias. Critias. "Let him go," he said sharply, and when the guards did not take their cue: "Leave him!" And waited until the city guard was out of earshot, the paper trembling in his hand. "What's this have to do with Critias?" "To do with—" "My partner's missing, dammit, missing while the city guard hauled Moria and that gold out of a jeweler's shop, the last damn place they saw him! Where is he?" "I don't know," Stilcho said, bewildered-looking, and was not lying. Straton's heart sank. the little that that chance Jiad raised it. "I don't know. Moria got picked up—that's all. Critias was there. I saw him. Comer of Regent Land and High Street. He was on a gray horse. I didn't want to get picked up too; I ran and he didn't follow. That's the truth, Strat. I was one of you. My oath—it's the truth, it's all I know." "Moria know anything?" Stilcho shook his head. "I don't think so. I was there because she sneaked out with the gold, I knew she was going to get in trouble—" It was too much truth now. Stilcho let his voice trail off, with that desperate look in his eyes, the look of a man who had committed himself too far to a man no longer in the same game. "It's in the letter. Her seal." "Her seal. Dammit to hell, is this her game?" "No! Gods—no, I don't think so." She wrote to Critias. She didn't know. But by the gods, she can find out. "Sergeant!" "Sir!" "Tablet. Fast." He grabbed Stilcho by the arm, pulled him close. "I thought you'd left her house. Alive." "I'm g-going b-back." Stilcho pulled to free the arm, desisted when he did not make it easily. The single eye was desperate, distraught. "N-not easy b-being on the streets." "I can slip you into the guard. Call it a favor. You could have come to me. I owe you one." "Too Mate." There was all hell in that look. "Too late." 260 UNEASY ALLIANCES "She's got you." Dead again? In the chill of the wind, there was no way to tell. "She's got me. And M-Moria. No help for us. Strat, for godssakes, get Moria out of there—if you owe me anything, get her out of that hole—" The sergeant came up with the tablet and a stylus. Straton took it and wrote: Walegrin—and a long scratch that stood for all the damned proto- cols. Send the woman Moria to the palace guardstation with this messen- ger and your order to hold her there until I sign the release. Straton, for Critias— Another long line, for all Crit's authorizations. He slammed his ring into the soft wax of the tablet and shut it. "No damn time for an overseal. Get this to Walegrin at his headquarters and hurry about it." The sergeant left at a run. "I'll go with him," Stilcho said, and Strat caught him a second time. "She's not free." "Not—" "If Ischade wants her out, Ischade can find Critias. Come on, man. We're going to go tell her that." Stilcho said nothing, only came as fast as he could, exhausted as he was. "Horses," Straton yelled, and the horses were waiting at the gate. Crit moved, tried to pull himself up from the upside-down position in which he had waked, in which he had already suffered hell, coming to soaking wet and staring upside down into the face of a lunatic with a knife. He had lost consciousness several times, and vomited his gut out along with a good amount of the water he had swallowed when the Ilsigi who avowed he wanted to kill him slowly had lowered him upside down into a rain barrel and waited till he choked. Again. And again. And again. And in between times had let him down, trussed hand and foot, to lie heaving and puking on the floor of the basement. He had screamed before his voice went. He was not proud. He had hoped to hell a dozen of his men would be searching by then, would hear the ruckus and come break the door down. But this place, wherever he was, was down deep, lantern-lit, and with some sort of padded baffle all round, so that there was precious little sound going to get up to the streets, if that was even where they were any longer. This fine, this upstanding citizen with the kid in trouble—had got behind him and hit him with something that stung like hell in the back of his neck and then weakened his knees and dropped him helpless as a baby to the alley cobbles, whereupon this fine citizen had kicked him in THE BEST OF FRIENDS 261 the groin, in the gut and in the head, and the light had gone out for he had no idea how long, or through what. Right now he wanted only to get air past the bubbling of whatever was in his nose and his throat, and upside down, he could not do that, the blood was hammering in his neck and his head and his gut hurt too much to let him get that breath. The rope paid out suddenly and dropped him onto his arms, his shoul- ders and the back of his head, driving the breath out of him. He could not get it in again. He went out, And came to propped up against something lumpy and solid, and with the self-same lunatic squatting there with a knife in his hands. "I'm not going to kill you," the man said. "You'd like to know my name, but I'm not going to kill you, not going to give you a thing to give your friends, either. All us Ilsigis look alike—don't we, pig?" He thought: /'// remember you, Wriggly. But he was not about to ar- gue. Never argue with a lunatic with a knife. "What'll you describe? Medium build. Black hair? Do you a lot of good, pig. I got your partner. Now I have you. Witch has your partner. Maybe the witch can bring back your eyes. Can she? What would your partner pay for that? It might be worth it to me, pig—just knowing that." 0 gods. 0 gods. We've got trouble, haven't we? Hell-bent through the streets, too fast, for the weather, but the bay horse made it without slipping and the borrowed sorrel made it, some- how. Strat did not stop to see, reckoning Stilcho would follow as he could. And this time he pulled up in front of the river house and slid down to drop the bay's reins in front of the hedge, he was cold sober and in a deadly hurry. He shoved at the gate and got a shock, kicked at it then. "Ischade, dammit! You want that damn girl, you get out here, fast!'" Stilcho rode in behind and slid down, ran up to the gate and got it open —him, it did not shock. For him, Ischade's door opened, and Ischade came out and stood on her porch, waiting. "Come on," Stilcho said nervously, and grabbed Strat by the arm. He needed no pull. He all but beat Stilcho to the porch steps; and held Stilcho's distance from her, who stood cloaked and dark and ominously frowning. "Somebody waylaid my partner," Strat said. "Ischade, I'm asking you —personal favor, if I've got any credit left. Tell me who and where." "Where is Moria?" "Guard custody. She's safe. She'll be fine. I'll let her go when I've got 262 UNEASY ALLIANCES Crit, hear me? You want a favor out of us, we want one out of you. Fair trade." Prolonged silence. "Fair trade," he yelled at her. "Damn-lit!" "A remarkable day," she said. "So many people want favors of me. And magic comes so dear nowadays. You don't want me. You want a fortune-teller. A finder of lost objects. Surely you can find one down at the bazaar with the jugglers and the mimes." "Don't put me off, woman, I'm not in the mood for your jokes!" "You mistake me. Do you want my help?" "Yes." Breath came short. "Dammit, I have to have it." She turned her shoulder and the door opened wide. "Come in." He mounted the steps, Stilcho treading behind him. Not like old times in this familiar room that was somehow the same and somehow more chaotic in its disorder and the litter. He was where he would have given a great deal to have been this morning. And now there was ice in his gut, because there was suddenly his partner's life on his hands, and Ischade's temper to deal with, that he had provoked, he, when it was Crit's life in the balance. If Crit was still alive at all. Ischade took the back of a chair and flung it, shoved the table back, rumpling a litter of cloaks, and simply sat down cross-legged on the floor, hands before her. Her eyes rolled back. Her lips parted. And a light grew between her hands, spinning and spinning in a way he had seen once and more than once. Like a small Globe of Power, whirling and staining her hands and her face and all the room with its cold glow. He hunkered down with his hands clasped against his lips and waited, waited, because what she was doing was not the magic he knew in her, pyromancy and necromancy. This was another thing, a thing that was not supposed to exist. "I don't find him on the surface," she murmured—no mummery, ei- ther; Ischade could talk and wield power at the same time, carry on a running dialogue while doing what would raise a sweat on many a talent in the Mageguild. "There's a far-seer over across town. I'll see. She's erratic. Sometimes she's right." "For godssake, find him!" "What—" Her eyes snapped shut and open again, present and shocked, as she clapped her hands together and smothered the light. "Aaah!" Stilcho cried, and held his hands over his eyes. Straton and Ischade exchanged a look then which understood some- thing Stilcho did not. THE BEST OF FRIENDS 263 "What is it, dammit?" Ischade bit her lips and drew in her breath. "Nothing. Nothing need concern you." She gathered her skirts to rise. "I will find him. There's nothing I can do from here. We'll have to search out the trail. Stilcho." She gave him her hand, and he helped her to her feet. "What is it?" Strat asked again. But Ischade did not answer him. She flung her cloak about her and walked out the door, which had a disconcerting way ofopeningjust when it had to. He was last out, and it shut behind them with a thump, as the gate swung open. Stilcho's horse shied and pulled at its tether. The bay simply stood. And when he got there, Ischade was holding the reins. "I'll ride behind," she said. Old habits came back. He had his mouth open, and shut it. Useless, with Ischade. One did things her way, or one did not, and they might go to hell for all she cared; he wanted her help in the worst way, with a life at stake. He rose to the saddle and cleared the stirrup for her. She rose lightly up behind and put her arms about him, too damn familiarly. "Hyyyyaaa!" he yelled at the bay, and it wheeled about and might have unseated her and him; but not him, and damned well not the likes of Ischade, no such luck. No chance of falling on the road, slick as the stone was. He laid his heels to the bay, and such was the uncertainty of the misty air and the echo off the buildings, sometimes it seemed like it was only Stilcho's horse striking the cobbles. "My son," Nas-yeni said. It was safe to tell him that much. There were a lot of sons. There had to have been. "You killed my son. Threw him out like garbage." He sat cross-legged, close to his victim in the lantern light. "You, I'd like to take to the same place when I'm done with you. Maybe I will." The Stepson never had said much, just took in his breath when Nas- yeni got to work on him, and screamed sometimes, in what voice he had left, but the vomiting had left him with very little voice for screaming. He could still see. Nas-yeni had saved the eyes for last. And the tongue, that last of all. Right now it was the fingernails; and Nas-yeni pulled the needle, heated, from the little cooking brazier he had full of coals. "Come here, Critias. Let's try another one." Critias spat at him and tried to kick him, but there was panic in his UNEASY ALLIANCES 264 face now, and that kind of hard-breathing sob a man got before he fell apart. Nas-yeni knew. He had practiced, before this. There was panic in the attempt to scream, too. It was in the pace of things. Nas-yeni had studied these matters. Had done this service for certain of the gangs, who wanted something from one of their own. Rankans he had never touched. He had never risked himself. His mission was too holy, his revenge too important, to risk Rankan trouble. Just internal matters. Never too hasty. Take one's time. Never let the victim get his defenses together either, or forget there was worse to come. "He was seventeen, pig." Slowly, through the afternoon streets, still in drizzling rain, the shops' business slow, the citizens who did find reason to be out on the streets moving about all muffled up in cloaks. But no few stared at the sight of a Stepson with a black-cloaked woman riding pillion behind him, slowly and deliberately through street and street and street; and a one-eyed man beside them, where Stepsons had searched frantically all day, and rousted citizens and searched ware- houses. Perhaps it was the fey, dire feeling about them, that coursed through Strafs bones and set his teeth on edge. "Wrong," Stilcho said softly, above the soft clip and clop of hooves on cobbles. "Wrong—" "Is it me you see?" Ischade whispered. "Or else?" "I don't know," Stilcho said hollowly, in a voice which itself could raise the hair's at a man's nape. "Hereabouts," Ischade whispered. "Hereabouts. Steady, Straton. Don't flinch." He felt something at his back—felt it, like fire and ice, burning through his armor, into his bones. And suddenly the horse whickered and gave a thrust of its hindquarters, skittering forward and taking an undirected turn into an alley, into a maze of balconies and rubbish and discarded barrels. It was crazed. It headed them up a nook and stopped, facing a dead end. "Here," Ischade said. 'Where?" Blank walls surrounded them, windowless, doorless. Strat looked about them in desperation, and twisted about as Ischade slid down. "The horse knows. It has the scent." He dismounted and dropped the reins, drawing his sword, looking above them, for some window, any aperture. THE BEST OF FRIENDS 265 The horse pawed the cobbles, put down its head and nosed the rubbish. Above a hinged iron plate set in the cobbles. "Damn," Strat said. "Damn." And dropped to his knees and pulled at it with his fingers. It would not move. "Bolted," he said. "Dammitall!" Desperation welled up in him. Blue fire ran around the opening, down the hinges, dim in daylight. Metal grated. "Now," Ischade said. He pulled and it lifted. And the sound, the half-human sound that came from somewhere in the depths, ran right through his nerves. He did not stop. He saw the steps and he went, writhed his way through a hole too small for a man to take easily, down into the echoing dark. "Stilcho!" he heard Ischade whisper urgently. He heard the slither of someone behind him, but another such moan wrenched at his gut. He felt his way down and down, one hand for the sword, one for the wall, his eyes straining at dark absolute except the little gray light that got through from the open trap above, and that fitful, with his partners leaning over it. He heard laughter echoing through the vault, soft and awful, coming from everywhere. And caught himself with his heart in his throat as his foot missed a step and he saved himself at an unexpected landing. There was a chain there. He grasped it and felt it to find the steps, descending again, till he heard the sound in front of him- He felt ahead of him with his sword, probing the dark till it suddenly touched stone. He felt either side and found nothing, and, with his bare hand, in front of him, and felt a wooden door. He put his ear against it. And pulled it open, carefully, carefully as dim lamplight spilled against his eye. ". . . friend," he heard. And a sound hardly human at all. He saw a light, old columns, watermarked, a pair of figures low to the ground against a mound of dirt. He eased his way in, flexing his hand on his sword-hilt, hardly daring to breathe. The damned hinge creaked. The man looked around. "Haiiii!" Strat yelled, for what shock could do, and was halfway across the room before the man jerked Crit up by the hair and brought the point of a dagger right up under Crit's left eye. "You want him blinded? Drop it! Drop the sword!" 266 UNEASY ALLIANCES Cnt tried to say something Fool, probably And arched his back and struggled as the knife jabbed "Drop it'" Strat dropped it, and saw the man drop the knife and snatch two- handed at something in the straw beside him, but he was already moving, launched with all his strength and speed across that intervening space— Crossbow Cut's Firing The bolt tore into him He spun with it, staggered and kept moving, clawing his way up again, tearing the dagger from his belt, hurling himself and the weapon missilelike against the man with the spent bow He hit the man in the gut, he felt that, felt the rush of blood over his hand, the tumble of threshing limbs tangled with his as he went down with the bolt shocked by the fall and the dark closing around him "I couldn't stop it," Stilcho said "I couldn't reach him—" Ischade held up her hand, dismissal, absolution—whatever Stilcho would accept—and looked down at the carnage that spread blood through the straw "Witch—" Cnt said, or tried to say, looking at her through the one eye that still would work It came out a raven's croak And after so much else, he spat at her "Gratitude Of course." Straton washer concern She tucked her robes away from the blood that was everywhere and felt of his back and his neck, where a pulse still beat The bolt had hit high The bad shoulder Again. "Damn you," Cnt whispered, "damn you to hell, let him be." She touched Strat's face when Stilcho had turned him over He was bloody everywhere. He was half-conscious, and he tried to say some- thing, but she touched his lips and his brow and put him to sleep She did other things too, and bent and kissed him on the brow and on the lips, bloody as he was "Let him be, you damned ghoul'" Somewhere Cntias had found that much voice, and struggled to an elbow, to try to throw his body into her, if only that She whirled and stopped him, her hand on his throat, and flung him back down, spat at again But she restrained herself "He came after you He came to me for you But you will not remember that " She held him with her eyes only now, cut him free with the knife she drew from the dead man, then put her joined hands to Cnt's face, and let the mage-fire flow, mending the eye, the hands, everything that might cripple a man "Sleep, Cntias " It was part of her curse and her talent, that mesmeric talent that could THE BEST OF FRIENDS 267 erase her very passage from a mind, make seeing eyes blind, create elabo- rate memories that had never been Such, largely, had been her affair with Strat until she began to take risks, with Stilcho to die his deaths, assuage her needs, fulfill the curse "Come," she said to Stilcho, taking him by the hand "We have Mona to see to Cnt will take care of things " And drew Stilcho with her, hesitating at the last, bewildered, surely But she turned his face to her with a touch of her finger, and erased his memory of this place, before she led him up to the light It was luck, surely, that a searcher spotted Strat's bay horse m an alley searchers had been down a dozen times that day, spotted the trap left up, and investigated, all on a hunch that had come on the man even to go down that often-searched alley Cnt had run out of strength, dragging Strat's half-conscious weight toward the stairs, collapsing there in the dark with Strat damned near bleeding to death and the stairs yet to go. After that it was horse litters to get them as far as the guard-barracks infirmary, Cnt more exhausted and bruised and with cracked ribs that bandages could help, Strat the worse off of the two of them. Strat, who had come through for him and done what he had done, before the damned IIsigi lunatic had had time to carve him up Strat, who had distracted the killer and taken the bolt, knowing he was going to take it, because that was the only way to get across that distance and knife the bastard that was going to cut Cnt's throat. Strat had had enough strength left m him to cut Cnt loose And then fainted Cnt ought to have been in his own bed He was not He sat by Strat's, just holding onto his arm, thinking, damn, he would go to the witch by riverside, he would go down there and he would beg if that was what it took The sight of Strat deliberately distracting that bastard, deliberately taking the shot and still having it in him to aim true and hard—would haunt him, like the thing Strat had said when he managed, m his pain, to cut him loose— "—damn mess, Cnt, damn awful mess How'd you get into this^" It was Strat the way he had been Strat before the witch had got him. Strat his partner And Strat did much the same thing when finally he came to and found him sitting there, with the candle all but a stub on the bedside table "What the hell," he said "I must've made it all nght, didn't P" THE POWER OF KINGS Jon DeCles "I am afraid, my dear, that we are going to get into some trouble over this play," said Glisselrand, picking up another ball of brightly colored yam and adding its lurid yellow to the dark fuschia with which she had been working all morning. Her knitting was the one evidence of her past that she had not dropped along the way, the closest thing to a regret that she had ever shown in all the years since she had run away from home to become an actress with the travelling players. "And why should that be, my sweeting?" asked Feltheryn, going over the lines of the play before him, intermittently sipping at the tisane in his cup. "Well, you may have been too busy to listen to gossip, but the thing most discussed in this dreadful town is the possible marriage of Prince Kittycat to the Beysa," Glisselrand replied, her voice just a little more reedy this morning than Feltheryn liked. "Has it not occurred to you that this particular play which Molin Torchholder has commissioned us to perform might be taken as a political statement?" "How so?" asked Feltheryn, devoting only a part of his mind to the conversation. "It depicts an unsuccessful marriage of state, for one thing," said Glis- selrand. "For another, there is that very powerful scene in which the High Priest forces the King to his will. One assumes the words were written originally at a time when the King of some country was overstep- ping his bounds, and when the magician who wrote it felt it appropriate to bend the will of the monarch to the wisdom of the temple." "Well, yes," said Feltheryn, looking up at last from the old parchment THE POWER OF KINGS 269 text of the play. His blue eyes focused on Giisselrand and he was struck, as always, by how beautiful she remained, even at - . .—Certainly more summers than was polite for a man to consider. (At least past fifty.) "But what has that to do with thee and me?" "Feltheryn, my darling," Glisselrand said patiently, "you know how the plays affect people's minds. Has it not occurred to you that Molin might be attempting to use us to get control of the prince?" "My darling," said Feltheryn, "the plays are magical, there is no doubt about that. But their magic is unpredictable. Surely Molin, as a priest, knows that he cannot depend on a performance of one of our plays to give him any precise results. The changes that occur in people upon seeing our plays are subtle, and like as not they will even go unnoticed. Molin saw the plays in Ranke. He knows they cannot be used, I am sure. . . . You must think more kindly of this fine man who has been good enough to arrange a theater for us, hire that charming painter, Lalo, to paint our scenery, and, most important, see that we are all fed until we are established in Sanctuary." "Perhaps," said Glisselrand after a moment. "But-1 do wonder at you, even after this many years. You are still such an innocefft! I wonder how you maintain it." This comment left Feltheryn bewildered so he returned to his memo- rizing of the text; a very normal reaction, as much of what his beloved leading lady said to him was beyond his understanding. In a moment he was absorbed again in the terrible scene in which the king discovers that his new young wife is in love with his son by a previous marriage. Feltheryn moved his hand to his brow and ran his fingers through his bushy white hair in rehearsal of a gesture of anguish. He did not notice Glisselrand's tender smile as she watched him. The company had lost many of its treasured articles of production in its final days in Ranke, and as The Power of Kings was a play replete with royalty, it behooved Feltheryn to replace certain crowns, sceptres, and other paraphernalia of rulership. To this end he headed for the bazaar of Sanctuary, accompanied by Snegelringe, who would play his son Karel in the play (Feltheryn always reserved the parts of kings for himself and left the younger, more romantic parts for his junior) and Lempchin, the boy who acted as factotum to the troupe. They were looking for a blacksmith, but one who had a certain flair and style about his work; for crowns and sceptres were a far cry, artistically, from horseshoes and barrel hoops. It was perhaps inevitable that they catch the attention of those who frequented the bazaar by day but who made their homes in either the Downwind or the Maze; for after so many years of being a king upon the stage Feltheryn moved with the authority of one, if not the wisdom. UNEASY ALLIANCES 270 Certainly no true king would have been foolish enough to head for the bazaar with only one guard and a clumsy boy for company. It was luck, and very good luck, that the first to make an attempt upon the old actor's person was not one of Sanctuary's better thieves: other- wise the purse which Molin Torchholder had provided might have been lost. As it was; the apprentice pickpockets crashed into Feltheryn, the "master" of the gang (who had attained at least eighteen years despite his stupidity) rushed in with a knife—and learned quickly that actors must be as good with their swords in reality as upon the stage. Snegelringe's blade flew from its overly ornamented scabbard, moved in an overly flamboyant arc, and the attacking knife flew from a hand that spurted blood. The apprentices drew back, their eyes round with surprise as their master clutched his hand and staggered away with a yowl- They had clearly not expected Snegelringe, a paunchy man with a receding hair- line, to have any speed of arms. "Death to all who ride against the King!" proclaimed Lempchin, in a voice that was strong enough but not yet deep enough for the stage. Then the boy spoiled his moment by giggling. Fortunately the apprentice pickpockets were not versed in the finer points of stage delivery, and they took Lempchin's statement seriously. They ran, scattering as thoroughly as the narrow street would allow. "Well played, my hearty!" said Feltheryn to Snegelringe. "But you, boy, you must learn never to break character until the curtain is down! Suppose they had not run? Suppose they had taken our defense as a joke?" "Why then," said Lempchin, "Master Snegelringe would have skewered them all!" "A pretty move, no doubt," said Feltheryn, and he lowered his deep voice an octave to where it sounded like the dead oracle from Nodrade. "But then should we have found ourselves with enemies, and be the target of every friend those fiends ever had. And one dark night when you must walk alone, the sharp blade would cut across your throat!" The boy gulped. "And we should have to find another boy to take your place emptying the chamber pots!" added Snegelringe. Lempchin's discomfort faded and he blushed. He did not really like Snegelringe, Feltheryn knew, but he respected the actor: in fact, he wanted to take his place some day, if he could just leam the lines and arrange an accident. "Come," said Feltheryn, rumpling the chubby boy's hair. "I see the place Lalo recommended, across the square ahead. While I talk to the THE POWER OF KINGS 271 blacksmith perhaps you can persuade his wife to read your palm. They say these S'danzo women read the future well, and she may see you upon the boards yet!" The interview with Dubro, the blacksmith, went well enough, though he apologized for his lack of expertise in fashioning crowns. The huge man was not pleased with the way Snegelringe lavished attention on his wife Illyra, but neither did he move to stop it. Feltheryn supposed the fellow would have felt foolish exhibiting jealousy over a pudgy actor with a receding hairline; and he did not feel it appropriate to disabuse the man of his illusions at just this point. Snegelringe's reputation as a ladies* man would spread through Sanctuary soon enough, causing the company problems aplenty. Let that happen later, after people were accustomed to coming to the plays. Then the troupe would be able to weather the criti- cism of their morals that even a town as corrupt as Sanctuary felt quali- fied to heap upon mere actors. As for the wife, Hlyra: Feltheryn wondered why it was she dressed as she did, making up her face in such a way that she appeared, to the untrained eye, like a crone. Was it because of the respect accorded to old age? (He knew well that such respect was more often an illusion of the young than a reality- His own years had earned him rather a grudging tolerance than respect. People did not defer to him, they waited for him to die so that they could take his place!) Or did she have some secret distress? She was not responding to Snegelringe's attentions as a woman might usually. The professional mask of a seeress was set well in place, but to Feltheryn's equally professional assessment she seemed mildly puzzled by it all; as if she could not understand why Snegelringe was flirting with her. Was it possible she did not know that actors used makeup as skillfully as S'danzo, and for much the same purpose? Was it possible she did not realize that Snegelringe could see beneath her mask to the lovely young woman? Feltheryn let the puzzle go, another observation of the human condi- tion for his catalogue of character, and finished his business with Dubro. Lempchin had not found the seeress m a soft enough mood to give him a reading of the cards for free, so the boy begged for a pastry instead, and that led to Snegelringe boxing his ears as they left the bazaar to return to the theater. The theater itself was still under construction in the shell of a building that had burned during the plague riots. It was located between West Side Street and Processional, near enough to the palace that the prince could come at his convenience yet far enough away for the Rankan lords to retain their feelings of respectability. Molin had at first proposed hous- ing the actors at some distance from the actual playhouse, perhaps in 272 UNEASY ALLIANCES Westside where there was new construction: but Glisselrand had made clear, with her wannest affectations, that a woman would feel unsafe going such a great distance alone, and that providing her with a depend- able escort would cost Molin much more than was reasonable. She had phrased it in such a way that there was no room, short of acute rudeness, for the priest to suggest she provide her own escort, or do without. Thus the theater included an attached residence which, though small, was better than anything they might find among the workmen's quarters at Shambles Cross. The Architect of Vashanka had even taken a personal interest in the construction, as if the finishing of the walls on which he had so long labored was somehow not enough to occupy his creativity. He offered plans for a very lavish performing space and was not in the least offended when Feltheryn pointed out to him, with grave discretion, the need for a stage house at the top and dressing rooms below and behind the actual stage; not to mention space in the wings for the storage of properties to be brought on. The rebuilding had gone on apace and now the structure was begin- ning to look much the way Ranke's theaters looked. There was a prosce- nium, a thing never seen outside the capital, boxes for important people who wanted to be seen as much as they wanted to see, and a royal box for those nights when the prince wished to attend a performance. The the- ater was, after all, a political tool of some import for those, like the late Emperor, who knew how to use it. It was therefore not as great a surprise as it might have been when Feltheryn entered and found the Beysa Shupansea having tisane with Glisselrand in the foyer, surrounded by several ladies-in-waiting whose raiment was so splendid that it paled only before the Beysa herself. For a moment Feltheryn was awestruck. The cloth in the Beysa's dress alone could have footed the bill for the whole of the theater. She wore such riches as Ranke never saw, and she wore them well, her breasts thrust out voluptuously and yet with dignity, her head held with a pride that was neither unnatural nor condescending. The gorgeous snake coil- ing about her throat like a necklace was a priceless piece of theater! The only woman he had ever seen so queenly was Glisselrand herself, perhaps in the role of Adriana in Templesmoke: but of course he would not declare that to the Beysa. "Does not the day confound the night?" he quoted from The Archmage by way of greeting, for he had not yet learned her proper title of address. "Are not the stars but fragments of the light?" The Beysa smiled and the membranes on her eyes nictitated. She knew THE POWER OF KINGS 273 flattery, instantly understood why he chose to use it at this moment, and decided to accept it graciously. "I have come to see your theater," Shupansea said. "And perhaps to make my own small contribution to its success, if that would be appropri- ate and acceptable." Feltheryn decided he liked her. "But of course!" he said. "Has my lady shown it to you, or have you waited for my return?" "Your lady has shown it," said the Beysa, "and we have discussed my gift. She asked only that I accept a few sweets, and this lovely hot tisane she makes, while we awaited your approval." "If my lady approves it, then so do I," said Feltheryn. "But what is it that you so kindly offer, if I may ask?" "The Beysa," said Glisselrand (and her voice held the full rich lustre that it always did on stage) "has offered to have the royal box flocked with velvet. Not just the rails but the whole thing, inside and out. I think that is most kind of her, don't you?" "Not only kind, but generous," said Feltheryn. "May I assume from this that . . ." (There was nothing for it, he had to use some title!)". . . Your Highness plans to attend our humble offerings?" "It will be a great treat to see such plays as those the Rankans saw," said the Beysa. "Especially after so long here in Sanctuary. In my home- land there were many spectacles provided to amuse us, and I confess to missing them. I shall be most pleased indeed to come the very night you first perform." The irony of her using the past tense when referring to the plays per- formed in Ranke was not lost on Feltheryn, but he noted it only in passing. An occupied Royal Box inevitably meant a full house! Later, that night, Feltheryn had second thoughts about presenting The Power of Kings. In addition to the King, his son, and the leading lady, the play required a second young male, the son's best friend. It was the most sympathetic part in the play, for the friend, Rorem, died by an assassin's arrow in the last act, even in the midst of swearing his love for the prince, Karel. It was one of the great and moving scenes of the play, and one of the most mystical, for it was never explained. Like the events of real life, nobody ever discovered who killed Rorem, or why. The problem was that Rounsnouf, the company's comic, was the only person available to play the part; and Rounsnouf had discovered the Vulgar Unicom. To be sure, every town had its share of low dives; but the Vulgar Unicom (Rounsnouf explained as best he could after much too much to drink) was special! 274 UNEASY ALLIANCES "Master Feltheryn, I have never seen so many great character studies! The place is a treasure house' I could live there, absorbing the little moves they make, taking in the peculiar touches of their accents! There is a dark-haired boy who is all bluster and covered with knives, yet who possesses a wonderful vulnerability; I would not trust him with a grave- stone, yet he appeals to my heart, . . - There was a young woman, clearly of the noblest birth, and yet trained as a gladiator! Can you imag- ine that? I dared to speak with her, and she told me that she chose to learn to fight! So fascinating! Oh, how I wish you would join me there!" It was not the wine, nor the ale, that thus gave Feltheryn misgivings: it was the seductive quality of observation the tavern offered. While all actors spent much time observing the details of character in their fellow humans, there was something about Rounsnouf that was like a hunger, and that fed off other people. He used every observation he made in his brilliant work in the plays, but when one encountered him backstage, or away from the theater, it was always disquieting. Glisselrand said she hated to leave him alone with Lempchm, not because she thought the comic would bugger the boy but because she wondered if she might come home and find him in the stewpot. "How are you coming with your part?" Feltheryn asked, not valuing the answer of a drunk but trusting to wine to bring out the truth. "I'll have it by opening," said Rounsnouf. "Never fear! It is only a small part, after all." "Yes," said Feltheryn, "but it is an important part, and it is not a comedy, it is a tragedy. You have played it before with less than glorious results, I might point out. I would appreciate it if you left off your obser- vations until we have opened, and concentrated on the work at hand. The Vulgar Unicorn will not close nearly as soon as our play will." Rounsnouf sat down on the floor and folded his short, thick fingers intertwined. He shut his eyes, set too close together, and yawned. Then he scratched his butterball stomach under his motley tunic. "I suppose you are right," he said, entirely too agreeably. "I would like to be able to deliver Rorem's death speech without laughing. Oh thou whose blood runs in my veins, more closer yet than any brother. Thou, whose blood I chose against the call of nature ..." He fell back laughing and his legs stretched out so that his feet, too small for his body, wiggled in the air- "It sounds as if he has to use the outhouse!" Feltheryn held back his own laugh. Taken out of context, the little comic was right. "Come, Rounsnouf," Feltheryn said, offering his hand and helping the little man up. "I think that we had best to bed, else wake the house." THE POWER OF KINGS 275 "Let me see . . ." the comic said as he gained his feet and shook himself. "The boy walked thus . . ." And without any help he mounted the stairs, his body gliding sleekly in imitation of the shadow-spawned grace of one of the town's most notable thieves. Feltheryn sat down and considered: Rounsnouf had twice before be- come so engrossed in his studies that he had completely missed perfor- mances. He could not be allowed to do so again, at least not this early in the game. One could not bind him to the theater, nor yet threaten him. He only sulked and gave a bad reading if you did that. What then? Feltheryn looked in the purse of gold that Molin had given him and contemplated the best and most necessary uses the money could be put to. Of these, assuring the performance actually occurred was certainly one of the best, and so he decided upon visiting the Vulgar Unicorn himself. But early the next morning he entertained a visitor who delayed his visit, a visitor who, of all those denizens of the empire he had entertained, was surely the most entertaining. He awoke with the feeling that the room was burning. He started to cry out where he lay but immediately stopped. He knew too well that people died from leaping up and breathing in the burning air that accu- mulated at the top of the room, sometimes not more than a hand's breadth above the sleeping face. He threw one hand out to anchor Glis- selrand where she lay next to him, then thrust the other up to see at what level death hovered. Two surprises greeted his hands. The first was that Glisselrand was not there. The bed was empty but for him. The second was that the air above him was not burning, only warm. He focused his eyes more clearly, remembering as he always did in the morning that his eyes were not what they once were. He was not in his room after all, not in his own comfortable bed. He was lying, rather, on a chaise lounge of red-brown satin with a damask coverlet thrown over him. He was still in his long woolen nightshirt, and the lounge was large enough to accommodate two, but that was the only resemblance to the situation in which he had fallen asleep. He was in a low chamber with a black and white checked marble floor. Thick small carpets were scattered here and there and a huge fireplace blazed brightly not far away, the source of the heat that had made him think of fire. The walls of the room were paneled below the wainscoting with dark wood, but above they were covered with damascene silk of a dusky rose color. There were framed pictures on the walls, but Feltheryn 276 UNEASY ALLIANCES found he could not look at them directly and see anything. They simply blurred. A blind servant stood next to the hearth, and across from the lounge on which he lay was an ornate chair, a throne really, in which sat some- one heavily robed and hooded, a someone whose eyes could be seen glowing redly out of the darkness of the hood. "Master Feltheryn," a voice said amiably from under the hood. It was a young voice, but he could not tell (and that bothered him!) whether the voice belonged to a man or woman. "You are not really here. I trust you realize that?" Feltheryn had not, but he nodded in assent since he seemed to be expected to not only realize it but understand it. "Very good," the voice said. "I thought an actor would understand such an illusion. Such a way of communicating. I am Enas Yorl, a resi- dent of this town who does not get out much for reasons which I may later choose to explain. I have chosen to come to you in this manner to request your help in alleviating my boredom at being so cooped up within my house." Now this Feltheryn understood. The way the man shadowed his coun- tenance with his hood, the discretion he showed in conducting the inter- view, were symptomatic of many who suffered some deformity. "You wish me to make some special arrangement at the theater," Feltheryn said. "Something in the nature of a draped box, where you may see without being seen; is that it?" "Do you then know of me so quickly?" Enas Yorl asked, and his voice began to change, not as to tone but as to timbre. This fascinated Feltheryn greatly, for it did not seem to be a deliberate alteration such as he, himself, would have made. "No, good sir, only of others who have asked a similar boon. The effects of a pox upon a beautiful lady, the loss of looks that comes from war ... It is not such an unusual request. In Ranke we reserved a box with curtains specifically for such a need. I think perhaps we might make one here as well, though I had not expected its requirement so soon." A laugh came from the hood, but even as it bubbled forth the laughing changed, and when next Enas Yorl spoke it was with a rough and gut- tural tone like that of an experienced soldier. Feltheryn instantly envied the man his remarkable ability! "You do not know of me, that much is plain! And I think that I shall leave it so, for you have made me laugh by your innocence. Soon enough shall you leam. But then again, your assessment of my situation is not incorrect. Return to your rest, Feltheryn Thespian, and consider that you THE POWER OF KINGS 277 have the best of the bargains a man can make: for you change form at will, and can take off the masks you assume. Now sleep!" Feltheryn wanted desperately to pursue the conversation and stay in the presence of Enas Yorl, for at that moment he observed that his inter- viewer was not only seeming to change his form somewhat under the robes, but to change his mass as well; and that was a trick he would dearly love to leam. Playing Roget the Hunchback was one of the greatest accomplishments of the stage, not because of the powerful emotion of the role but because of the difficulty of acting while strapped into the elabo- rate harness that simulated the deformity. He was about to plead his case for study with Enas Yorl when darkness intervened and he was awaking in his own bed, his arm thrown protectively over his lady and the morn- ing sun pouring through the casement. He moved his hand gently back, so as not to disturb her beauty rest, then climbed out of bed and dressed quietly. He was in the small kitchen heating water for tisane when he heard the door of the theater open and close. That would be Lalo the Limner, come to paint the next set of flats and the periactois for the auto-da-fe in Act Three- There was certainly nothing more impressive in all the world than the illusion of fire on stage, and nothing harder to accomplish- Feltheryn had chosen this time to bring about the miracle through the use of periactois —three-sided columns with different paintings on each side—which could be revolved. There would also be ragged strips of cloth dyed like flames which Lempchin could waggle furiously by means of strings de- scending from the flies. The strings would not be visible, and in the flickering light of the onstage torches the effect would be terrifying. The vision so captured Feltheryn's early morning imagination that he quite forgot the kettle of boiling water and went to get his script and notebook, adding several details which he thought would improve the stage picture. He barely noticed when Glisselrand put the pot of tisane and a clean cup at his elbow, and with it a plate of freshly scrambled eggs, cheese, sliced bread from the previous day, and a pot of rare red jelly made from the legendary oranges of Enlibar; of which they had a dozen left in trade for seating when (hey had played The Steel Skeleton, a play which many assumed to have been written by an Enlibrite wizard, and which the Enlibrites would travel fantastic distances to see. He was roused from his deep reverie and study of the text when an unfamiliar voice echoed in the theater, followed by Glisselrand's most opulent tones. "I only came to bring Lalo his midday meal," a woman's voice said. "But I confess I did hope to see if it was you. It's been many years, but UNEASY ALLIANCES 278 how could I forget? While Lalo was working on the painting that won my hand there was nothing for me to do, so I came to see the play. I had seen you do a piece before the tent, so I knew it would be good." "Why yes," said Glisselrand, and her voice held all the charm and delight that only an actor can know when remembered after twenty years. "What play was it that we did?" "TTie Master Poet," said the woman, whom Feltheryn now took to be Gilla, Lalo's wife. "It was so personal, at that time, for your situation was much like my own. When I came away I felt as if my whole outlook on life had changed. People looked so different! I felt so differently!" Feltheryn smiled to himself. Yes, the plays worked their magic in strange and subtle ways. And that play was a comedy of love, a comedy of love between the generations. But even then he had chosen to play the older man, the lovable shoemaker who could have the young girl, but who chose wisely to let her love the younger man, the man of her own generation. "I am so pleased that you remember my performance," said Glissel- rand, and Feltheryn knew that it was true. He tried to hark back in his mind to that distant day, to remember some trace that would lead him down the path to a sensual recall of time and place, but it was hopeless. He had done The Master Poet so many times that one performance blended into another. The sunlight falling on flowers that his mental search prompted could have been in any of a hundred small towns. The play was too universal to attach itself to time and place. Only the first time he had done it was clear in his memory, and then he had not played the older man, but Dainis, the apprentice who danced and fought . , . The King recalled him to the page and Glisselrand and Lalo and Gilla faded into the paint of the periactois like soft music played behind the potted palms in the Emperor's palace. His hand shot out into the air, retreated, his lips moved, and anyone watching might have thought him in the grip of some seizure as he moved in slight indications of the broad gestures he would use upon the stage. It was much later when he came to the realization that he was eating his supper, not his breakfast, and that he had been absorbed for the whole of the day. He carefully set the script aside, finished the boiled turnip with butter that was the last of the food on his plate, and washed it down with the watered wine that Glisselrand had provided. He was not up to the full strength stuff anymore. Then he stood and stretched his very tall frame, forcing air back into the stagnant blood. It was,, he considered, time to visit the Vulgar Unicorn. Snegelringe and Rounsnouf were already there, drinking at a table in the company of a handsome young man with shoulder-length glossy THE POWER OF KINGS 279 black hair, a man dressed far too fine for the likes of this low dive, Feltheryn observed as he entered unobtrusively and looked over the place. And yet, low though the dive was, it was not without merit. He thought of the many taverns he had entered over the years and the gen- eral lack of lustre they displayed, and he decided that perhaps Rounsnouf was right, the place was a treasure house. There was a certain dark color that crackled with hidden decisions, a subdued excitement that spoke of desperation. He spied out the barkeep and headed across the room, then dodged deftly as a scrawny, heavy-lidded man who feigned sleep at one of the tables tried to trip him without seeming to. "It would seem that Hakiem does not like you," the big man behind the bar said. Feltheryn had assumed his dodge deft enough that nobody would no- tice the interchange, but that was clearly not the case. The eyes of thieves, he reminded himself, were trained in much the same techniques as those of actors, to see and learn what was not always apparent. "Now why should that be?" he asked, drawing out a small coin and putting in down. "He views you as competition, King of Players," said the barkeep. "He is a storyteller in the streets. What will you drink?" "Half water, half wine," said Feltheryn. "That is foolish of him, for he will be able to tell a thousand tales to each play I perform. And the stories we offer are different." "Half water?" the barkeep asked, and his look was of the greatest contempt. Feltheryn drew himself up tall, taller than the barkeep though not so broad or strong: taller than anyone in the room, though probably thinner than anyone as well. "I am an old man, in case you have not noticed," he said with dignity. "My body does not move as quickly as it once did, nor do my guts digest as well. I will pay you as if the whole cup were wine." That settled the matter and the barkeep gave him what he wanted. "I will pay for something else as well," he said after he had taken a drink. "Something within your proper duties but which might be dis- tasteful without the gold." "And what is that?" asked the barkeep suspiciously. "By now you know Rounsnouf, my comedian," Feltheryn said, ges- turing toward the table where his actors were so engrossed that they had not noted his entry. "I fear that he knows this place better now than he ought, at least for the welfare of my plays. I will pay you a fit sum if on 280 UNEASY ALLIANCES certain nights, when we are to perform, you will forbid him entry until the play is done." "And what's to stop him drinking elsewhere?" "It is not the drink he values in this place, it's the people. I do not think he will find such a ripe assortment elsewhere in Sanctuary, and if he knows that he can come here but for play nights, I do not think he will feel abused." The barkeep named a price, Feltheryn dickered it down (though it was within reason) and the bargain was struck. "But you must tell him what you've done," the barkeep concluded. "Just so," said Feltheryn, finishing his drink and gesturing for another. His cup refilled, he made his way across the room, avoiding the table of Hakiem, and joined the party. Rounsnouf and Snegelringe introduced him to their new friend, Hort. then they all swapped stories and poems for a while. Feltheryn did not tell Rounsnouf what he had done until the next morning, when the little comedian took it in stride. "Would that the gods," he said in acceptance, "were so steady of will as a director!" The final piece of planning involved extra bodies, for The Power of Kings was a spectacle play and the effect of spectacle was achieved largely through filling the stage with elegantly clothed people. Feltheryn had taught many a young actor the importance of a walk-on role by citing the case of the handmaiden in The Murder of Queen Ranceta, a part which gave the young woman playing it but a moment on stage but without which the play could not exist. (It was the handmaiden who delivered the tray with the fatal flagon of poisoned wine, and without the poisoning there was no play!) Now the question was where to hire attractive young women to don the robes of court ladies, and where to hire young men to wear the garb of court gentlemen. Feltheryn asked Lalo, who certainly should be able to ferret out beauty if anyone could, and Lalo asked his wife Gilla, for he was not confident in the enterprise. Gilla suggested that Feltheryn talk to Myrtis, the propri- etrix of the Aphrodisia House, with the admonition that the women who worked there were above average in looks for their trade; and a vote of confidence in their honesty to their employer. Feltheryn did as Gilla bid and was delighted to find that Myrtis could not only supply him with lovely ladies but knew where to hire young men just as pretty and reliable to wear the beautiful clothes he promised. It was not long before the theater neared completion, before the sets were painted and dried, before Glisselrand had brought in seamstresses to help her finish the arduous task of building the last of the costumes. THE POWER OF KINGS 281 Actual rehearsals got under way, the piecemeal chunks of the drama were glued together into scenes, then acts, then the ladies and gentlemen of the evening were called in (by day, so that they could continue to work nights until the opening) and the grand sweep of the drama was stitched in its final glorious pattern. Feltheryn ceased to sleep much for even after so many years an open- ing night excited him. He ran lines in his mind constantly, missed, re-ran them. He worried over the success of his new theater, he worried over the nuance of each line in the play, he worried over things that a week before would have flowed by him like mist in the night. He took to dressing in a shabby cloak and wandering the streets, hunched over so that his height would not mark him, and listening to the crowds. Were they talking about the theater? About the play? If not, something must be done. He longed for the days when the mere fact that he and Glisselrand slept together without benefit of marriage was sufficient to titillate the masses. In those days there had been no difficulty in drawing a crowd. The pride of the youthful Rankan Empire had filled the streets of Ranke with pleasure seekers, and the craving of a young empire for respectabil- ity had made scandal easy, Scandal in Sanctuary would be hard work, he thought. The theater was decorated within with banners and garlands of flowers made of gayly colored silk, and the night before opening they decorated the outside as welt. It must be a festive occasion, and it was to be such a novelty in Sanctuary that all kinds of people offered help. Molin came by and asked that they move virtually everything movable, to make sure it would work. Myrtis stopped in—at an hour unknown to a woman other profession—and assured Glisselrand that she and her ladies would be bringing trays of sweetmeats for opening night. A wagon pulled up and unloaded several barrels of excellent wine, courtesy of the as yet unseen prince. It seemed as if nothing could go wrong. Feltheryn retired that night with only the slightest anxiety, and sank immediately into a sleep filled with naming vistas, tragic emotions, and thunderous applause. The actors slept late the morning of the opening, as was usual. Days of rehearsal had now to be traded for nights of performance, and the energy required for such was enormous, particularly of people who had reached the ages Feltheryn and Glisselrand had. Lempchin brought them break- fast in bed, a tradition which they indulged despite the cleaning which the kitchen would require after the boy's attempt at cooking. Snegelringe came in and Feltheryn complimented him on his perfor- 282 UNEASY ALLIANCES mance at the dress rehearsal: '*I think you have the role at last," he said. "The way you walked was perfect! Just the right balance of nobility and indolence for KareL" "I was pleased with that myself," said Snegelringe. "Actually, I owe it totally to Rounsnouf and his fascination with that tavern. I was casting about for a model and one of his friends, a dark young woman who fights as a gladiator, told me she could show me a man very much like Karel if I would attend her. I did, and we rode to a brief hunt. Out on the hills she pointed out some noble dandy and his guards, and even from the distance I could see that he was what I wanted for the part." "Who was he?" Feltheryn asked, sipping at the tea which Lempchin had made too strong. He much preferred tisane. "I've no idea," said Snegelringe. "I asked her, but she laughed and said it were better I did not know, for he was not the kind of man I would enjoy knowing." Feltheryn furrowed his brow. It was not likely to be a source of diffi- culty, but he preferred to know from what hand all the cards in the game had been dealt. "Will she be coming to the play?" "She says she would not miss it for the world; especially once I had told her Prince Kadakithis and the Beysa would be there in the newly flocked box. She said she would be bringing several other ladies as well." "Ah, good," said Feltheryn. "The more nobility the merrier!" "The house will glitter like Midwinter Festival in Ranke," said Glissel- rand nostalgically, and Feltheryn detected just the slightest regret in her voice. It had been good in Ranke with the Emperor's support. She threw the covers back dramatically and sat up in the bed. "And /." she announced, "must glitter twice as bright! Lempchin! Go out to the herbalist and get me a box of henna, my hair is beginning to show grey!" That buzzing, casual time before the opening passed, the afternoon when there was nothing to do but a thousand tiny things that had to wait, then had to be done. The blue hour came, the stars began to prick the sky, and Lempchin lit oil lamps on the front of the theater. The inner doors were closed and the outer doors were opened, and Lempchin pre- pared to sell admittance. Feltheryn headed for his dressing room, stage left, and prepared to put on his makeup. He did not need as much as he once had. Now the job was to make him seem young enough for the part of the king. Once it had been a task to make him seem old enough. He was part way through when he heard the voice of Hort outside his door, and with it that of Rounsnouf. THE POWER OF KINGS 283 "But you could wait," Hort said. "He will still be there later!" "I could, but I won't!" said Rounsnouf, and the voices moved past the door to Feltheryn's dressing room, toward the back entrance of the the- ater. Feltheryn felt a moment of panic, dropped the sponge with which he had been applying rouge, and leaped to his feet. He hurried out into the passage, but it was too late. The door was closing and Rounsnouf and the storyteller were gone! "Shipri's Dugs!" Feltheryn swore, and his voice carried like Vashanka's thunder. The door to the dressing room next to his own opened and Snegelringe looked out, his facing looking oddly pale with only the base applied, and no eye or lip color. "Hold the house!" Feltheryn instructed. "Rounsnouf has fled, and I must chase him!" "To the Vulgar Unicorn?" Snegelringe inquired. "If so, I'll have the hide of the barkeep. I paid him to be sure the curtain was on time!" He went back into his dressing room, wiped the makeup from his face with a wet towel, then pulled on a tunic. Just to be sure he would be taken seriously he added the belt with the King's sword. He threw a short cloak over the tunic against the chill, then he left the theater. No matter that the sword was cheap iron, a hand on the hilt was all it usually took! He glanced up the alley from the stage door as he went and noted that people were already arriving. He would have Rounsnouf's skin for this escapade, and possibly a bit from Hort as well! He rushed through the gathering darkness, still running lines in his mind for the second scene of the first act. In a matter of minutes he was at the Maze, then within it. He was so angry that he barely noticed the patter of feet that fell in behind him, forced them in fact from his atten- tion until they speeded up: until it was apparent that they were running after him, close and with intent. The skill most necessary to an actor upon the stage is the ability to adjust rapidly to changing circumstances. If a door sticks one must be ready to make it appear a part of the play. If a sword sticks in its scab- bard one must be ready to dodge a choreographed blow and keep the action flowing while one gets it free. It was not so much self-preservation as stagecraft that made Feltheryn whirl upon his assailants at the last moment and slide his sword free, raising it over his shoulder in the menacing stance of a broadswordsman ready for the downstroke. The shadows before him skidded to a halt. There were five of them (poor odds) and he recognized them at once as the pickpockets who had UNEASY ALLIANCES 284 tried for his purse that first day in the bazaar. Wicked sharp steel glinted in the scant starlight, definitely better weapons than the fake sword he wielded. The tallest one, the boy whom Snegelringe had wounded, gave a laugh. "King indeed!" came the young voice. "Nothing but an old player! One with too much gold on his person at that! And this time with no pudgy sidekick to defend him!" The youth was right, Feltheryn observed, but his words showed inac- curate judgment. "The gold is all spent," he said, keeping his voice carefully level and below the middle force. "As to the rest: I am old, but not without skills." "Skills to be tried!" snarled the boy, and they all came at him. "Die then!" Feltheryn cried, and this time he let forth the full power of his voice, a voice trained to reach at least the third balcony of the largest theater in Ranke. And as he spoke (for he did not have to shout to be heard from one end of the Maze to the other) he brought the iron sword down with his full strength and speed, straight at his opponent's head. One knife caught in his cloak as he swirled it with his left hand. Another thrust between his ribs, under his descending right arm; but its force was not sufficient to go all the way in, so startled were the thieves by the force of his voice. Two of the boys jumped back, terrified. The leader, primed on his pride, managed to avoid the iron blade descending toward his head, but not quite enough. The edge was not terribly sharp but it was moving fast enough to break his collarbone where it struck, even as his blade sliced across Feltheryn's belly, drawing blood but not managing to gut him. It was not unlike the fight in Rakesblade, and Feltheryn, barely feeling the wounds in the excitement of a performance, delivered his lines with force enough to rattle their teeth: "Is this your best, you unborn whoreson snakes? Is magick then your honorless defense? See too my holy blade I can enchaunt. So that its light your rude entrapment breaks!" The fact that they were not using magic against him quite escaped their attention at that moment, for the sword in Feltheryn's hand began to glow a bluish white, spilling its weird light into the shadows and illumi- nating the scene dramatically. They had no idea that the light from the blade was all there was to the magic of the spell contained in the play. They only knew that their leader was once more screaming in agony and that the man before them was much taller than he had seemed a moment before: that he seemed unharmed by their attack, and that they were not winning. THE POWER OF KINGS 285 "Gralis, forget him!" cried one of the boys to their leader, and then they all bolted, leaving the wounded Gratis to fend for himself. Feltheryn stepped forward, brandishing the glowing sword at his ago- nized enemy. "Go thou into darkness!" he commanded, from later in the same play. "Take demons now for playmates if you will, and leave forever, these the lands of lightF Through the pain in his ruined shoulder the boy heard these words and, harking back to the terrors that had so recently reigned in Sanctu- ary, he lost control of his bladder even as he turned and staggered away, doing his best to run. Feltheryn stood triumphant, the light blazing from the sword in an unnaturally quiet and empty street. He watched the horrified and incom- petent thief disappear into the shadows, then he realized that something was wrong. There was no applause! The light of the sword fizzled out as if it had been doused with a bucket of winter cold water, and the pain hit Feltheryn where the two blades had cut him. He shook himself, took a deep breath, then thrust the stage sword back into its stage scabbard. He felt the wound across his belly and determined that it was not going to be fatal, then checked the piercing between his ribs. That was more serious, and would require a chirurgeon: after the performance. He turned and headed for the Vulgar Unicorn, his anger returning full force. —But he was not prepared for what awaited him when he slammed open the door and raked the brown darkness with his steel-blue gaze. Rounsnouf and Hort were two of three sitting at a table engaged in animated conversation while the barkeep—a barkeep different from the one Feltheryn had bribed—poured dark beer in their mugs. The barkeep registered a look not much different from that of any other man faced with trouble, but it was the third patron at Rounsnouf's table who captured and held Feltheryn's attention. A daemon! They were drinking with a gray-skinned, wart-faced, wall-eyed daemon! "Oh dear," said Rounsnouf. "I believe I've upset my director." "Lady of Stars!" exclaimed the young storyteller. "You're wounded!" "Not so much in the flesh as in my heart!" Feltheryn proclaimed, a quote from the play he should now be ready to begin. *'I would not have come just now . . ." Rounsnouf said lamely, and he gestured to the daemon. "Snapper Jo's fault?" the daemon queried. "Just a little drink with friends. Very human thing to do!" 286 UNEASY ALLIANCES "To the Theater!" Feltheryn proclaimed. And if the habitues of the Vulgar Unicorn had been familiar with the whole corpus of the sacred plays they would have seen in the fire of his eyes the conjuration of most ancient deities from the most ancient dramas. They were not, but nobody argued. Still, the night's difficulties were unended. Bandages, ointments to kill the pain, makeup, costume, light calisthen- ics to fill his blood with air to support his voice; all these were accom- plished, and the curtain went up. From the wings Feltheryn listened to the love scene in the garden between Snegelringe and Glisselrand, run- ning his lines and clearing his mind of all the nonsense that had slowed him. It was past, after all, and only the play now existed. The scene drew to a close and the curtain was drawn, then he and Rounsnouf and Lempchin, with the aid of the roaring boys provided by Myrtis, pulled the ropes, moved the panels, and in general changed the scene to that of the King's study. He took his place on the stage, seated at the King's great desk, and the curtain went up. Feltheryn came alive. There was an audience and he could feel it, feel every living being as a presence, their eyes upon him, their breathing slowed, their minds in- volved—their emotions guided as they submitted themselves, for the du- ration, to the magic of the show. He began the monologue in which the King voiced his doubts, then Glisselrand entered and he began the part of the play that was his personal favorite, for it said, better than any words of his own could ever hope to say, what he felt about her: "How shall I call you then? Like some great bird, that though she be my slave can yet take wing? Like some famed horse, that though I hold the reins can race the wind? I call you love, and hold you in my arms, and yet you overpower me. I call you wife, and you must call me lord; and yet I worship at your shrine!" He ceased to exist as a separate person and became the tragic king, a man doomed by circumstance to destroy all that he loved in life, rescued from the ultimate humiliation only by the intervention of supernatural forces at the end: forces beyond his comprehension. The scene changed again and the pain hit him, then he launched back into his performance and it was gone. Only when the first act was com- plete did he really understand that he was seriously wounded. Instead of going out to the little secret passage behind the lobby (Molin had in- cluded it without question) to listen to the public reaction to the play, Feltheryn stayed in his dressing room, resting for the forceful and terrible THE POWER OF KINGS 287 interview with the High Priest, preparing for the cold and terrible act of burning his enemies at the stake, the auto-da-fe that was the play's most stunning spectacle. By the end, however, as the story ground to its inevitable conclusion with the ghostly figure of the King's dead father dragging his grandson Karel into the tomb, the pain was pushing past all Feltheryn's defenses. And there was something else, something that had tugged at him increas- ingly throughout. As the curtain fell and he dropped the character from him like a discarded robe, he placed it. There was no applause. No more applause than there had been in the alley earlier. Instead there was a curious buzz, something between anger and amusement, par- taking of both; as if the audience didn't know what to do. He had felt it, had known with the back of his mind that something was wrong, but he had been too much at odds with the pain to pay attention. Now his mind focused on it with a clarity like sunlight on springwater. He started to go through the curtains for a bow, .if not to receive applause then to gauge the danger, but Glisselrand took his arm and stopped him. "I think not," she said, and he saw that there were lines in her face that age had not put there. "What's wrong?" he asked. "I don't quite know," she replied, "but I think we shall find out. The Prince and the Beysa have sent word that they are coming backstage. Let's get to the green room." They had taken the precaution of providing their own greens for the opening, so by the time Prince Kadakithis and the Beysa Shupansea swept in, Feltheryn and Glisselrand were seated behind a desk amidst baskets of flowers and fruit with potted palms to either side. It had not been easy to find potted palms in Sanctuary, but they had grown used to them in Ranke and they felt it would identify them positively with the capital in its days of glory. The effort was apparently wasted. "How dare you'" accused the prince, and Feltheryn instantly knew what it was that he had dared, though just how and why he did not know. Prince Kadakithis was clearly the young nobleman on whom Snegel- ringe had modeled his walk and manner! It must have appeared that the whole play was directly aimed at him, a warning or an insult or ... "Oh look!" said Snegelringe, entering on the arm of a beautiful young 288 UNEASY ALLIANCES woman and accompanied by several more. "Here's the young man you pointed out to me! Kind Sir, you cannot know how grateful—" Snegelringe stopped. The whole world seemed to stop for a moment as one of the ladies in the pudgy actor's retinue stepped forward. "Daphne!" Prince Kadakithis exclaimed. "My husband!" said Princess Daphne, and the look she gave him could have frozen the oceans all the way to the Beysa's homeland. "I heard that you had made a gracious contribution to the evening, so how could I do less?" She stepped past him and drew out a small velvet bag which she dropped on the table in front of Glisselrand with just enough force to indicate that it contained metal; from the sound of it, gold. Then she looked back at the prince. "I hope that you enjoyed the evening as much as I did. For now you must excuse me. I have an appointment with Master Rounsnouf, the estimable actor. Then Masters Snegelringe and Rounsnouf and I will be going to the Vulgar Unicorn. It is amazing how much of Sanctuary I never used to see!" She swept from the room, followed by the other women who had come in with her. Snegelringe, perceiving that he had been duped, stood motionless while the full import of his actions crashed down on him. "I . . ." he started, but then he stopped, clearly unable to formulate an appropriate apology. The Beysa laughed. "Master Snegelringe," she said, "your imitation of the prince was most enlightening. Only less so than the reason for it which we have just had revealed. But perhaps you might choose another model for the perfor- mance you will give tomorrow night." "Unless," said Feltheryn, the plot of the play before him coming clear, "Your Highness would consent to see it in another light!" The Prince and the Beysa turned to him and Glisselrand clutched his hand. "While it is true," he continued, "that the role of Karel is tragic, it is also noble. Karel, like His Highness, spends much of his time in a back- ward land; so much so that he comes to love its people, even to the point of standing up for them against his father, the King." A different tension now came into the room, for the relationship be- tween Prince Kadakithis and his half-brother the late emperor, was well known. "If it were spoken in the palace that the Prince was pleased with our seeing him in such an heroic light, tonight's performance could not be THE POWER OF KINGS 289 taken as an insult by anyone, no matter how it was instigated. In fact, I doubt anyone would believe that it was anything but the best compliment we poor players could offer. More, it is known that Your Highness has supported our efforts, so it might seem that it was with Your Highness' compliance that we performed the play thus." He did not dare say further. The seeds of the idea were planted, it would be up to them to keep them watered. The magic in the plays was subtle, but it might be sufficient to transform the image of the Prince from that of a "kittycat" into that of a tiger. The Prince and the Beysa looked at one another. The Beysa's snake slid out of hiding in her sleeve. Molin Torchholder stalked into the room, his face full of the lightning of the god he worshipped, but before he could speak the Beysa turned to Glisselrand. "Turn out the pouch the Princess Daphne gave you," she instructed. "Daphne?" echoed Molin, clearly outraged. Glisselrand did as she was bid and dumped the sizable pile of gold coins onto the table. The Beysa eyed the coins, then reached down to her dress and plucked off several large jewels. Smiling, she placed them on the table next to the gold. "I believe your next play should be The Queen of Tarts, "she said with consummate modesty, considering that the play was accounted too las- civious to play in many towns. "In case you do not remember, it is the one about the noblewoman who sells herself in the marketplace. I have never seen it, but here, far away from home, I believe I can risk it. These jewels should serve in earnest of the costs." "Oh, Your Highness," said Glisselrand, looking at the jewels. "We could not possibly accept such a gracious donation . . ." —Now what was she saying? Feltheryn wondered; for at that moment the pain between his ribs began to blot out his thoughts and he was sure that he must immediately slip from consciousness. The Prince and the Beysa might be nobility, but opening night was over and he needed a physician— "Not unless," Glisselrand continued, "Your Highness would accept a small token of our thanks." Feltheryn understood and plunged back to consciousness, but he was not quick enough. Before he could intervene Glisselrand had pulled out the object she had been knitting, a multicolored tea cozy that would have put the S'danzo to shame for its garishness, and she was proffering it proudly to the Beysa. RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT Chris Morris Sunset gilded Sanctuary's domes and spires as Shawme, the new girl at Myrtis's Aphrodisia House, sat upright in her backroom bed. Fists clenched, she took deep breaths, shaking off her bad dream. Her blue eyes wide, she stared hungrily out the window, at the sunset to which she woke, at the window frame itself, at the whitewashed walls of her little room. The room was plain by Aphrodisia House standards, but not by Shawme's. The room had a real window with glass panes; it had a feather bed and clean sheets; it had a writing desk cum dressing table on which were such luxuries as pots of body paint and makeup, kohl and powdered cowrie shell, even a hair brush made from boar bris- tles, and a bone comb; it had a closet with clothes in it—clean clothes, free from holes, dresses of fine sheer silk and even a coat to keep out the spring chill. It was a room of unimaginable luxury, high above the street, not like the room in the dream from which Shawme had awakened to flee. In the dream, she'd been back in her old Ratfall burrow, shared with five other orphans, fighting over the raw and bony thigh of a dead cat they'd found in the street. In that dream, the other kids had teased her that all of this was a dream. They'd been sure there was no room for her in the Aphrodisia House, no job among the perfumed women of the evening, no marvelous future unrolling day by day. In the dream, Shawme had been back in Ratfall where no one had a future and no one had a past, not a chance or a hope. Except Zip. And Zip didn't pay any mind to the youngsters. You couldn't matter to Zip RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT 291 until you weren't a kid anymore . . . until the PFLS found a use for you. Shawme unballed her clenched fists and rubbed her eyes with her hands. As the dream's terror fled, joy filled her and crested into exulta- tion. She was really here! She'd made it out of Ratfall! So all of this was true and real—the down coverlet she pulled up against her naked shoulders, the lavender-scented oil lamp ready to light by her bed as night came on, the beautiful sunset—because even in Sanc- tuary, the night could be beautiful when you were safe inside the walls of a fine house instead of lurking cold and vulnerable on the streets. And it was all real because of Zip. Zip had noticed her, all right, when she'd come to him with the treasures she'd found on the Downwind beach. Zip had looked at her with focused eyes for the first time and Shawme's heart skipped a beat. You couldn't do any better than Zip. Zip was the fantasy lover of all the young girls in Ratfall and half of Down- wind. Zip's power could shield you, Zip's connections could get you anything, even out. In front of Zip, Shawme had bitten her lip and pretended she wasn't about to swoon. She had to be grown up and impress the PFLS leader for her plan to work. The PFLS—Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanc- tuary—was working with uptowners now. Zip's connections were legend in the shanty towns. She'd smiled bravely and said, "I found something —things you'd want. I'll give them, for a price." And he'd let her show him, let her tell him, what she'd found—a bronze rod that turned noble metal to dross, an amulet of uncertain value, a rusted knife whose edge could be coaxed to life. There'd been one other thing she hadn't shown him, but that was her secret, still. And the PFLS leader had seemed to be impressed, and said, "What's your name, girl, and what do you want for these?" She'd replied, as cool as if she dealt with handsome rebel leaders every day, "I want out of Ratfall. I want a room in the Aphrodisia House. I want to be one of Lady Myrtis's girls and meet a noble lord and marry well." Her chin was high, to show she knew the ways of the world and the implications of what she was saying. As she spoke, she ran spread hands down her bodice and over her hips as she'd seen a whore do once, when she was uptown in the Maze where men could afford to buy a woman's favors and women sold themselves for money rather than hav- ing to give themselves for survival. Zip's eyes had narrowed, his mouth had twitched. He'd stroked his stubbled chin and gazed ruminatively at the treasures she'd found. Then finally he looked up from under his black sweatband and said, "That's what you want, I'll see what I can do. But leave these with me, or UNEASY ALLIANCES 292 somebody might take them from you and you'll have nothing to trade but what you started with." She'd been suddenly uncomfortable under his stare, a different look than he'd had on him before- It seemed to go right through her clothes and she thought, terrified for an instant so that she'd begun to shake, he was going to ask her to demonstrate her expertise, such charms as could qualify a girl for Myrtis's, the finest house in all of Sanctuary's red-light district. If he had asked, all chance of Shawme's escape to luxury and bright tomorrows would have been dashed on the spot, for Shawme had no idea what a man like Zip would want from a woman, let alone a professional woman. In point of fact, Shawme had no idea what to do with a man, except run from them and throw whatever you could at them if they got too close. If you didn't do that and they grabbed you, the next thing you knew you were battered, bleeding and pregnant. But it wasn't that way for the uptown women of the Aphrodisia House, and ever since she'd found that out, Shawme had wanted to go there. So when Zip's voice deepened, she was terrified. If he found out she knew nothing about the job she'd demanded in exchange for the treasures she had, he'd never help her. And if she ever was to let Zip do what men did to women, she'd have to know what she was doing. Or else he'd laugh. Men always laughed at virgins. Shawme's virginity was still a problem now, after a week at Myrtis's. She'd meant to tell Myrtis, when the time was right. But the time had never been right. Zip had gotten her the interview, and sent her uptown with an escort. She hadn't returned to Ratfall again, not for the whole two weeks since then. She'd been taught to bathe herself, to deal with her moon flow, to make herself soft and beautiful, to keep from getting pregnant. But she'd been taught nothing of how to rid herself of the awful curse of virginity. Or of how to please a man. All the other girls—older girls, poised girls, wise girls with gold rings in their ears and gemstones in their noses—assumed she knew her trade. They were arch and competitive, and their gossip had teeth. If they found out, she'd be driven from here, back down to Ratfall. Like in her dream. But no one had found out, and Shawme was going to go downstairs this evening, for the first time. Tonight, she would be among those in the great salon, posturing and fanning themselves, luring men upstairs. Tonight, Shawme would become the woman she was pretending to be. RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT 293 She'd lied about her age, said she was eighteen, when she was years younger. But no one had noticed. All the other girls were too busy count- ing conquests. Who came to see you mattered most here. Who came more than once, who became your regular, who your regular knew and what kind of gifts he brought you. It was a different world. And she was on its threshold. Her heart calmed, she stretched in her bed, watching the sunset slink into dusk, the colors no more beautiful than the garments the girls downstairs wore. Myrtis had given her the smallest room, the plainest clothes, the lowest percentage, but only be- cause Shawme was the new girl. "Except for Zip, you wouldn't have this bed at all," Myrtis had told her, not unkindly. "We've got a waiting list down to the White Foal Bridge. You'll have to make your way here, make friends, develop regu- lars. Then you'll have your own money, and we'll settle up what I've advanced you against a piece of your gross." Shawme hadn't even known what a "piece of your gross" was, until she'd gotten up yesterday early and snuck out of the house to meet Merricat at Promise Park. Merricat was Shawme's only uptown friend, a girl apprenticing at the Mageguild because of her shadowy, powerful aunt up north. The two girls had met on the beach one day, and been fast friends ever since. When they'd met, Merricat had been crying as she beachcombed, and Shawme had drawn her knife, ready to protect the other girl if she could. Merricat's tears, it turned out, were tears of unrequited love for Randal, the powerful mage who served the Stepsons. So they'd had something in common, both girls unnoticed by the men of their dreams. Merricat had confided all about Randal, and Shawme had told of her hopeless love for Zip. Then together they'd concocted this scheme, that was supposed to make Zip notice Shawme, come to the Aphrodisia House some day and sweep her off her feet. "After," Merricat had said wisely, with a nod of her prim little chin, "you have mastered the womanly arts better than anyone else. To make Randal love me, I must become a wondrous ad- ept." Merricat had given Shawme a spell to hide her virginity yesterday, given it with a frown: "I'm not very good at this—yet," she'd cautioned. "So be careful." Merricat was shorter, rounder, and fairer than Shawme, with a plump face and button eyes and all the softness of good breeding. Yesterday when they met, Merricat had had her peregrine, Dika, with her, the gift her aunt had sent to qualify Merricat for Mageguild apprenticeship in the first place. 294 UNEASY ALLIANCES "I trust you/' Shawme had replied, rubbing her tanned arms because suddenly she didn't. "Trust Dika, it's his doing. Lightning and thunder, I hope it works." Merricat was suddenly solemn. She leaned forward on the park bench: "And you'll tell me, promise. What it's like. Who it is ... everything. Or I'll curse you. You wouldn't want that." As long as Dika didn't curse her too, it probably wouldn't hurt worse than growing up in Ratfall, Shawme thought. Out loud she said, "Of course, a soon as ... it ... happens, I'll put the lantern in my win- dow. But won't you know, by magical means?" Merricat lived in constant fear of being found wanting, of failing in her apprenticeship. "I should know," she said, her full lower lip beginning to tremble, "but I probably won't. I'm not good enough, Shawme," she said, a whine edging her tone. "I'll never—" "Shush, bitch," said Shawme sharply, and then regretted the gutter talk up here where words meant different things. Shawme took Mem- cat's fine, soft hand and squeezed it hard before letting go. "You're better than you think. Dika knows it. He's not flying away." Merricat reached up, onto her shoulder to stroke the peregrine who perched there. The bird cocked its head at Shawme and opened and closed its beak once as if in agreement. "He's right, Merricat. Got to go before I miss breakfast." "And I miss bedcheck. Good luck with Zip." "Good luck with Randal." So the two friends had parted, Shawme armed with a root of dried mandrake on a thong that was supposed to keep her secret safe from discovery. Keep it safe, tonight. Tonight she would lie abed with her first man. She rubbed her tawny arms, stroking the fine sun-paled hair on them. She hoped he would be beautiful, bold and not too old. She wanted him to be just like Zip, with a full head of hair and a lithe young body, with high cheekbones and the fire of revolution in his eyes . - - But he could as easily be a fat, greasy-lipped merchant from the Street of Weavers, or a drover from Caravan Square. There were no gods left alive in the part of Ratfall that had spawned Shawme from the chance meeting of an Ilsig matron and a soldier who, from Shawme's blue eyes, was probably Rankan. No gods to pray to, but prayers aplenty. Shawme closed her eyes and chanted. "Red light, love light, first light I see tonight. Wish I may, wish I might, have the boy I love tonight." Quick as a spooked cat, she opened her eyes and there, out the win- dow, she saw the first lights flare along the town's skyline. Against the RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT 295 torpid blue of early evening, they seemed like an omen. Zip would come, she was sure of it. Come to make sure that Shawme had a customer on her first night at Myrtis's. Come to make a woman of her. Sliding out from under her coverlet, she clutched the mandrake root around her neck on its thong. Thanks be to Merricat's magic, everything would be all right . . . //she could just decide whether to wear her blue dress, or her red one. For a girl who'd never before owned even one dress, but only cast-off shirts and trousers, beggar's rags, choosing between two new and filmy dresses with low cut bodices and gilded laces was no small challenge. When she'd donned the blue one and was padding down the Aphrodisia House's stairs, male laughter was already rising over the raucous strains of music from the downstairs saloon. And tucked beneath that dress, tightly bound with a scarf to her thigh, was the other thing she'd found on the beach that night, the weapon she hadn't shown to Zip, the weird artifact from the sea that Merricat had squinted at, frowned over, and told Shawme that she'd better keep. The guard was changing in Sanctuary, and nowhere were the winds of chaos more keenly felt than in the Mageguild. Even Merricat, who hadn't been an apprentice very long before pillars of fire uptown had signalled the coming of the New Era, knew that. She could see it in the faces of the adepts, in the hunched shoulders of the handsome, mysterious and nameless First Hazard. She could feel it in her classroom sessions when a real mage was teach- ing, as Randal was this evening. Usually, when Randal taught the gath- ered apprentices, Merricat found herself daydreaming. She'd watch Randal's freckled face and envision it gazing fondly on her in some se- cluded bower to which he'd whisked her for private lessons. She'd stare at his prodigious ears and taste what it would be like to nibble them. She'd meditate on the strong arms of the warrior-mage in his adept's robes and wonder what it would be like to feel them around her. But not tonight. Tonight even Randal—who always made Merricat feel calm and safe and less afraid of being exposed as an untalented imposter among the students—even Randal seemed tense and wan. The lesson was in progress, though, and Merricat tried hard to concen- trate. ". . . go to your trances, and then we'll start adventuring up among the planes. On each plane we visit, you'll have time to look around, meet denizens. When you meet a denizen, be sure to remember its name. The eventual object of this lesson," Randal said in a sharp voice that forced Merricat's attention away from daydreams, away from schemes to get 296 UNEASY ALLIANCES Randal alone on pretext of discussing Shawme's plight, away from every- thing . . . ". . . the object is, eventually, to reach the twelfth plane, where you will encounter a spirit guide, a connection to help you negotiate among netherworld powers. This is magic of the most potent sort, magic of the kind that will stay with you lifelong and determine even your afterlife. It has nothing to do with mundane spells failing, with irate harridans com- plaining about inefficacious love potions—" The score of students tittered. Randal continued. "This is profound business. Some of you will make this journey slowly, in stages. Some will only partly complete it during this term. But to be truly an adept, you must in your lifetime journey to the twelfth plane, conquer all that stands in your way to do so, and there meet your guide face to face. Your guide is your representative where feet cannot tread. It is privy to knowledge you otherwise cannot tap, to power you'll never wield on your own." A hush fell over the students. Randal's voice had deepened even fur- ther. In his fighter's tunic and dark pants, he was the picture of a field mage, so much more suited to this lesson than some soft adept in a festooned robe of power. When Randal leaned forward, his neck out- thrust, his eyes raking their ranks, no one even shifted in surprise at the words he spoke next. "Class," Randal said in a suddenly softened voice that signalled his most intense concern for their welfare. "This is a lesson not without its dangers. Afterwards, there will be no teasing among you, no bravado from those who proceed faster toward those who go slowly. All of you are about to risk your sanity and mortal persons among the planes. Go cautiously, go with determination, and go with my blessing." He straight- ened up. A murmur ran through the students. When it subsided, Randal said, "And now, if you'll all put your feet flat on the floor, hands flat on your thighs, I'm going to guide your trances." As Randal ran through the relaxation litany, Merricat let his voice be her beacon. When he instructed her right hand to rise, of its own accord, from her lap and hover before her face, it seemed that her hand was indeed weightless. And when he told her to open her eyes and behold the manna of her person, she was unsurprised to see a green nimbus sur- rounding her fingers, to see the bones beneath the skin, and to see blue lightning spurting from her fingertips. When she was instructed to close her eyes again, they closed without her volition. When she was told that her hand would now fall to her RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT 297 thigh and when it did, she would open her eyes and see the first plane around her, she was not afraid. Until her hand hit her thigh. Then Merricat was plunged into vertigo and if she could, she would have grabbed onto her chair. But she could not. Her body was under RandaFs control, not her own. When the snap of his fingers caused her eyes to open, she beheld a landscape wind- whipped and strange, stretching forever in all directions, where hills had crests like frozen waves and trees were perfect spheres. Beneath those trees were others and she knew (without knowing how she knew) that some of those others were her fellow students. She knew because she was under one such tree and beside her were creatures part human, part not. One creature came toward her in wide strides, staring at her through one burning round eye, cocking the head of a falcon and saying through the beak of a bird: "Welcome, Merricat, to the first plane. What is it you seek here?" "Knowledge," said Merricat as she'd been coached in RandaFs lesson. "Friends. Power of mind.'* The beak of the bird grew large and from it came the words, "There are no friends for you on the first plane, as there are no friends for you at Aphrodisia House. You must seek higher. Here, as there, you will find only tools." "Give me one, then," she heard her own voice say, and was appalled at her temerity, The bird head nodded and the bird beak came close. She wanted to shy away from the sharp beak but she could not. Her palm extended and the beak neared the soft offering of her flesh. And into her palm it dropped an insect, like a wasp. The insect tickled her palm and on her flesh, with many legs, it danced. And as it danced, a wasp's nest came into being and into it, the wasp soon crawled. Then Merricat's hand became very heavy and the next thing she knew, it had fallen to her lap, for Randal's voice was saying, "•• . . at the count of three, your spirit will return to your body and your eyes will open and you will be in your seat beside your fellow students." It was as if the adept spoke only to her. She listened only to his voice as again dizziness overcame her. She was flying through clouds of many colors, among ancient seas, and farther. When she found her body, she felt absolutely sucked into it and her spirit came to rest in its prison with a thud that was her hand hitting her thigh. Her eyes opened. She blinked. The students around her were all pale- faced, white-lipped, and silent. No one looked at anyone else. But Merri- cat looked at her hand on her thigh. 298 UNEASY ALLIANCES In the palm of her hand was a red blotch about the size of the small wasp's nest. The hair rose all over her body. Surely this must mean something, or else she'd done it all wrong . . , What connection could the first plane have to Shawme's plight and the thing she'd told her friend to keep secret? She was shaking, trembling all over. Her skin was blotchy, red and fishy white. She didn't hear the rest of the lesson, she just heard Randal's voice, the only comfort in her universe which now was no comfort at all. She had to tell the adept what she'd done, how she'd failed, and find out what the omen meant. She had to. When the class filed out, her throat constricted: what if Randal left before the last of the students were gone? She couldn't chase him down the halls, or sortie to his private chamber where real magic was always under way. She just couldn't. But Randal was surrounded by other questioners, excited voices asking about what they'd seen on the first plane. Merricat waited until all but two of them were gone and then walked slowly up the row toward the front of the study hall. As she did, she felt the mage's eyes on her. And met them to see concern there, and recognition. For what she was sure was the first time, Randal had noticed her—not just because she was giving a dinner menu to the First Hazard and he happened to be in the room, either. But noticed her with his whole attention. If she hadn't been so frightened, she'd have blushed red as a beet. As it was, her gait stiffened and her steps slowed. Then Merricat stopped. She held back, watching, miserable. She didn't have the courage to walk brassily up to the mage, who was pestered with unending questions from other students. No matter the meaning of the omen, she'd go to Shawme by herself. They'd figure it out together. She couldn't, just couldn't, bother Randal with her insignificant problems, not when the whole Mageguild was reeling from the magical recession taking place in Sanctuary; not while teaching a new generation must seem so futile . . . Randal winked at her. Her hand flew to her mouth. She must have imagined it. Two students were much closer than she, prattling away. She clutched her tablet, on which she'd taken not a single note tonight, to her bosom. He winked again, and she heard him say to the two fawning appren- tices, "You two compare experiences, it will do you both good. Right now, I have an appointment with this young lady, whom I can't keep RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT 299 waiting any longer. Go practice first plane access. Tomorrow we do the second plane. Go on, now." Both students looked over their shoulders at her with resentful, jealous eyes that changed visibly when they saw what "young lady" Randal meant. She glimpsed surprise and a new respect and something nastier in their backward glances as they left, whispering together. With their passing, she and Randal were alone. She drew back a step. He didn't follow but stood unmoving, hands hooked in his fighter's belt, a slow smile on his freckled face. He was so bold, so handsome, so brave. He was the Stepsons' chosen mage, a fighting magician who'd battled in the Wizard Wars. He was the most romantic single figure in the beleaguered Sanctuary Mageguild and Merricat wished miserably that she could disappear, sink through the floorboards, and be gone. What did he care of her troubles, her doubts, her questions? She wished Dika was here, a comforting weight on her shoulder. Sometimes Dika seemed to speak for her, lend her courage. Butnot tonight. Falcons weren't welcome in Mageguild study halls. Neither was she. It was obvious that the keen eyes of Randal were reading her soul. She trembled, went up on tiptoes, and eyed the doors through which the others had gone. Still time to run. "Well, Merricat, how was your trip to the first plane?" said Randal gently as at last he came toward her. He knew her name! She could hardly believe it. She said hastily, "Well, it's fine, there was a blird who spook weirds to me, and round trees." Damned and tongue-tied, she wanted to die. She closed her eyes- And heard a voice so close she nearly fainted, "I saw something or other of that, I must admit. Would you like to talk about it over a drink?" and felt the mage touch her arm lightly, oh so lightly. Saw something? What a mage he was! Talk about it over a drink? She took deep breaths and opened her eyes and said fervently, "Oh yes you, bless!" And, mortified, put her hand to her mouth again. If she could just calm down, her words wouldn't get scrambled. Blird who spooked weirds. She cringed inwardly. The mage's fingers covered hers and drew her hand away from her lips. Then he was examining her palm, where the wasp nest's mark still could be seen. When he looked up, his brow was furrowed. "What's here means more to me than you'd understand. It would be a favor if you'd share your experience with me, and anything else that might be relevant that's hap- pened to you lately. Wasps and I have a ... special understanding." 300 UNEASY ALLIANCES The hand that wasn't holding Merricat's went to his waist, where a wavy sword, short and foreign-looking, hung in a tooled scabbard. Miserably, afraid to trust her traitorous voice, Merricat nodded. How to tell him about it all? About the wasp on the first plane, and the weapon her friend Shawme had found, that silver tube that shot tiny wasplike pieces of metal when you blew through it—the weapon Merricat was certain that Dika had wanted Shawme to keep? In fact, how to tell Randal anything at all, with her tongue tied in knots and her heart pounding? How indeed, while she was sure to the very depths of her soul that she'd done something wrong in helping Shawme, and in coming to the Mageguild, and in falling hopelessly in love with the famed and fearsome mage Randal in the first place? Shawme was trembling uncontrollably and afraid someone would no- tice her, making herself small in a comer among the other girls in Myr- tis's saloon. And someone had. One of the musicians, a percussionist who pounded drums and shook bells and crashed cymbals, kept watching her as he played. The attention of the musician made things worse. As did every man who came ducking in through Myrtis's beaded curtains, who stalked around the room, drink and smoke in hand, and touched this girl or that before making up his mind and escorting his chosen up the back stairs to the girl's room. Worse, because none of them so much as ogled Shawme. She might as well have stayed upstairs. Worse too, because if a man did approach her, she was sure she'd break and run- Unless, of course, that man was Zip. After a while she closed her eyes, secure in her comer with stout red- frescoed walls against her back, certain she'd get through this whole night unnoticed. As much trouble as that might cause with Myrtis, she knew she could handle that. Other girls must have failed to make con- quests on their first night here. Most of those who'd gone upstairs al- ready, went with men they obviously knew quite well, men who took them boldly in strong arms and crushed silken bodies against armored chests with no preamble. Shawme didn't know anyone like those soldiers, any more than she knew the sort of brocaded nobles who came in groups of twos and threes, smelling of perfume like the women, and gathered up giggling ladies by the armload. The only man who noticed her was the musician, a youngster with barely a beard and naked, sweaty arms. Her son. From undistinguished beginnings Eking out a living among his betters and here to please. The RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT 301 more he watched her, the more Shawme felt a kinship. She began won- dering if, when his music was done, the youth would come toward her. But it didn't work out that way. She was studying the frescoes in the saloon through a growing fog of smoke, finally realizing how instructive they were to an ignorant girl. On them men were portrayed doing what she'd seen dogs do in the street. And women knelt before them, doing mysterious things that involved kissing. Shawme was trying to guess at what that would be like, feeling her mouth grow dry and her heart pound as each successive man took someone else and the crowd of women thinned while she tried not to notice and prayed that Myrtis wouldn't come down tonight to find Shawme the only unclaimed girl, the only one who hadn't made a cop- per's worth of profit for the house . . . So she didn't notice the newcomers until the beaded curtain rattled, and then she quickly lowered her eyes. Three men had come in together, laughing, arm in arm, with a fourth behind them, taciturn. The three were military men, highly ranked since they'd been allowed to wear their weapons in here. The fourth was armed as well, and unsmiling. His glance caught hers before she looked away. In front of Shawme's corner was a couch on which three older girls reclined, each showing thigh or bare perfumed shoulder or a hint of rosy breast. The three jolly soldiers, unmistakably a little drunk, came their way. The tallest one was blond with braids in his hair and a goblet in his hand. He stared directly at Shawme for three heartbeats, and on the fourth her heart threatened to stop entirely. That look was a look of recognition, but she couldn't remember ever meeting such a soldier. She was sure he was coming for her. She shrank back in the corner, trying to push her way through the frescoed walls; trying to get breath into her lungs, enough breath for flight if he held out a hand to her as she'd seen men do here. She would run right past him, duck under his arm and fly out through the curtained doorway, into the street, back to Ratfall. She'd run and run until her heart burst. But the blond man looked away then, at the girls on the couch between Shawme and his soldier friends, and held out a hand to one of them, who squealed, "Oh, Walegrin, you're looking fit tonight," and giggled. In relief, Shawme squeezed her eyes shut. In that solitary darkness, her relief was eaten up by chagrin. Then came embarrassment and mortifica- tion, shame and despair. No man was going to choose her. She was going to fail. All the other girls would laugh at her. She thought to herself, Perhaps it's the mandrake. Perhaps it's ugly. 302 UNEASY ALLIANCES Perhaps it's working too well and keeping the men away So she reached up behind her neck, eyes still shut, and undid the thong that held it there When the thong came undone, she opened her eyes and surreptitiously pulled the mandrake from between her breasts, hiding it behind her, under the cushions of the bench against the wall When she straightened up, a shadow fell on her She looked up And up Standing directly in front of her was the fourth man, the one who'd come in alone. She thought wildly. He's not here for me, he's going to ask one of the girls on the couch. But all of them were gone While she'd had her eyes shut, they'd left with the blond soldier and his friends There was no one else in this comer, darkened by the big man's shadow, but Shawme She craned her neck, unable to nse as a girl should, her knees like water He seemed gigantic, all dark cloth and leather She looked up past his weapons belt at eye level, and could hardly see his face, just the dark shadow of new beard and a hand that came suddenly toward her. "Young lady," his deep voice said, "what's your name9" "Sh-Shawme," she quavered and hated herself His hand was waiting Somehow, she lifted hers. Then, with his help, she was standing "Your room, if you please," said the voice and still she had no clear impression of his face Her gaze was level with his broad chest, and his eyes beat down on her with such fire in them—as only those of Dika the peregnne had ever done before Too late to run, the deed all but done, she remembered her training "A dnnk, kind sir, or something stronger9" Drugs were purveyed at Myrtis's—drugs to embolden, drugs to give stamina, drugs to make up for whatever needed making up for, so Myrtis had told her "I'm known as Shepherd, little lamb," he said and she knew from that he wanted no dnnk or anything at all but her At the last minute, while his hand inexorably drew her from the corner toward the stairs, she remembered the charm that Merncat had given her, her mandrake root, without which this man was soon going to know she was a virgin. Anguished, she halted, their arms stretched out between them, without the strength to pull away His big head turned questioningly and she saw his profile for the first time a grown man's profile, hard and seasoned, a bold nose and lips trying hard not to laugh above a stubbled chin This was a stark man, a man from whom you ran on the streets because such men took what they wanted There was no fooling such a man as he "I—I forgot something, left something on the bench " "You don't need that, not with me," he said with such authority that RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT 303 Shawme could do nothing but obey the pressure of his tug, which pulled her in and under the circle of his arm Up the stairs they went the big man's right arm crooked around her neck, her right hand pressed against her collarbone by his grip, his fingers against her throat She hadn't remembered the stairs being so many, or the trek to her backroom bed so long His breath in her hair was hot and the things he said were a matter of tone, not words The tone said. You're mine, I'm in control Relax and you'll be fine. The words said whatever Shepherd thought she should hear, but she heard only an end to her childhood in them It didn't matter what the words were, it didn't matter that she took moisture from his lips to wet her own It didn't matter that he wasn't Zip, even It only mattered that she not fail, that he not be angry when her virgin blood was spilled, when her lack of expertise was on display When they got to her room, Shepherd wanted no help with his leathers or his weapons Help with his boots was something any fool could give And then he helped her, wordless and with a strange look on a face that seemed unaccustomed to humor or kindness but displayed both in red- brown, fiery eyes, eyes so much like Dika's When it became clear to him that she was unworthy of the job she held, ignorant and ill-prepared, an imposter, she was sure he'd leave her, go straight to Myrtis and complain. But he did none of those He treated her like fragile glass, like the musicians below m the saloon treated their instruments And soon enough she was learning, under his hands, why the other girls went to work smiling each evening. She learned enough so that, when the moment came for her skirts to come off, she was forgetful of everything what he must soon find out, how disappointment and disgust would oversweep him, even of what form his wrath might take. And then it happened Shepherd sat back on her bed, his diaphragm with its line of dark hair quivering, and said, "Take that off" His voice was very harsh "Put it on the table Now'" "It9" She was breathless, her voice a fear-constncted squeak How could she take off her virginity9 How could he even see it9 He'd just this moment glimpsed her unclothed form Then she followed the big man's pointing finger, and relief flooded her The silver tube was what he meant The sea-gift, the one Memcat had advised her to keep "This9" she said with fake aplomb. "I always wear it" "Not with me, you don't." He rose up, off the bed, and she saw his body start to change Chest heaving, she blurted, "Please, don't go I'll take it off" 304 UNEASY ALLIANCES Hands on hips, he waited until she had. Then he took her in his arms and, his lips against her breast, said, "The rest of it, I can handle. Just trust me, lamb." And somehow, she whispered to him, "But I don't know . . . I've never ... I don't have anything to offer you, no tricks, no skill—" "You have something none of those others could offer, lamb," he re- plied in a rumble that made her legs weak. "Something only you can give. And for it, I'm going to give you a lesson in love as has never been taught in Sanctuary." And then she knew that Shepherd knew, somehow, and that he wasn't going to be angry no matter if she bled all night. What she didn't know, until he tapped her on the mouth with a reddened finger, was that it didn't have to hurt to become a woman. Anymore than she'd known anything about the joys of womanhood that lay beyond her body's barrier, all of which the man called Shepherd showed her before, while she dozed, he slipped away, leaving a piece of gold upon her pillow. "Wake up, wake up!" said Merricat, shaking Shawme's shoulder. Be- hind Merricat, Randal hovered in the doorway, with Myrtis beside her. And Myrtis was wringing her veiny hands, saying, ", . . this is highly irregular, mage, and the least you can do for me, since I allowed it, is make our weather-control spell your first priority." "Later, Madame," said Randal. "Now leave us, if you please." Shawme was rubbing her eyes and stretching widely, still unaware that there was a man in the open doorway behind Merricat. "Merri!" Shawme smiled with delight. "What are you doing here? Never mind, I've got so much to tell—" Shawme saw Randal and stopped speaking. She pulled her coverlet up around her neck and hunched in her bed. "Shawme, this is important," Merricat said quickly in a low voice. "That's Randal the mage. He wants to talk to you. About thai." Merricat pointed to the silver tube on the table beside Shawme's bed. "That?" Puzzlement crossed Shawme's face. "It doesn't matter. Thank you for the mandrake, Merricat. Thank Dika. I had the most wonder- ful—" Randal crossed the room in quick strides. "Pardon the intrusion, miss, but did you—?" Randal stopped and looked at Merricat imploringly. "Shawme," Merricat demanded, leaning over the other girl stiff-armed and reaching for something glinting gold on the pillow with her other hand. "Does this mean what I think?" She fingered the gold soldat. "Oh, yes, and it was wonderful! I can't tell you how wond—" RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT 305 Merricat's face fell; she blinked back tears. If it hadn't happened yet, Randal had promised that he'd sponsor Shawme for Mageguild appren- ticeship, to get her out of Aphrodisia House. Now . . . Merricat turned an imploring face to Randal. "Too late," she whispered. "I thought it might be," said Randal, and Merricat saw Shawme's eyes dart from face to face as the others spoke. "Shawme, if you will cede this instrument," he ignored the coin that Merricat held, and tapped the table on which the silver tube rested, "to the Mageguild, you'll have my undy- ing gratitude, enough money to move out of here into your own house, and favors to be claimed from Merricat and myself whenever you need them- Such favors as a mage can grant." "What? Why? I—" Merricat sat back, beaming now, looking fondly upon her friend, who was saved after all by the fine auspices of Randal, the most wonderful mage who ever lived. Randal replied, "It's too long to explain. I have an affinity for wasps, let's say. So does Merricat. This washed up on the beach, I was told?" The mage stood over her, beginning to voice his questions. Shawme nodded and answered every one, while Merricat held her friend's hand, until Randal asked, "And will you tell me who you went with tonight? Who came up here with you, and what happened then?" Shawme's jaw set. Her eyes seemed to go cold. She said, "You want the pea-shooter, take it. My client didn't like it anyway." "And your client . . . ?" Randal blushed and Merricat thrilled with love. "Did he, ah, was there blood spilled here tonight?" Randal pressed. "What is this?" Shawme demanded, bolt upright now. "You told him, Merricat! How could you? It was our secret. Get out of—" "Shawme, I had to; it's important. Did it happen, the spilling of blood?" Merricat's grip tightened on Shawme as the other girl tried to shake it off. "Of course it did, and it was wonderful!" Shawme's anger blazed. "Now get out of here, Merricat. I'm never going to forgive you for this. My business, bitch, is with this here mage, not the lies of you." Merricat stood up uncertainly, head hanging. Randal put a comforting hand on her arm, a reassuring touch that told Merricat she'd done the right thing, no matter what Shawme thought. Randal stepped forward then, saying to both girls, "Shawme, Merricat, friends are too few to fall out over something like this. Shawme, Merricat was brave and tireless in your behalf- Merricat, your friend needs your understanding. Blood shed in this way, right now in Sanctuary, is impor- tant. All of what I've promised you, Shawme, is still yours—money, favors for the asking—even if you won't answer me. But as a favor to me, 306 UNEASY ALLIANCES we need to know if the man who gave you this coin is anyone we know, whether he's friendly or inimical to us." Shawme blinked like a startled alleycat. Merricat was afraid her friend would ask Randal just who the mage meant by "we," but Shawme didn't. She didn't say anything at all. She threw back the coverlet hiding her nakedness and vaulted from the bed. There, on the linen, was proof of the act, and of Shawme's boldness. Merricat's friend reached languorously for her robe, head high, a proud look on her face. And Merricat was beginning to think it must have been Zip who'd come to Shawme and made her a woman when the Ratfall girl said, "He calls himself the Shepherd, or something like that," and, shrugging into her robe, snatched the gold coin from Merricat's fingers. "He gave me this, and more." Her eyes burned. Merricat got up from the bed and backed right into Randal, her own body feeling wooden and numb. Peering into the mage's face desperately, Merricat strove for comfort and found none. Randal shook his head infinitesimally as Shawme flounced by, an- nouncing her intention of "going back downstairs, where there's food and drink for celebration." Left alone in the courtesan's room. Randal said only, "Shepherd, by the Writ." He sighed deeply. "The only good in this came from you, Merricat. And will have to come from you, henceforth. You must help your friend, even if she doesn't understand anything about why you're doing it. And you'll need all your powers, as well as my help. Are you up to it?" Powers. Merricat had no powers, but Randal did. And Shawme needed her. The blood spilled tonight was spilled in sacrifice, an Ilsigi rite that Shawme hadn't understood, but was now inextricably bound up in. And in a way, it was all Merricat's fault. She saw Randal pick up the silver tube and fondle it, then look back at her and offer his arm. She'd done something right. "Of course I'll help Shawme. Even if I didn't want to, an apprentice always obeys the Adept who is her instruc- tor. Have no fear, dear Mage. I shall do whatever you say." And she took Randal's offered arm and let him escort her out of the Aphrodisia House and back to the Mageguild, where she belonged. A STICKY BUSINESS C S. Williams The Serpentine is a partially cobbled street that zigzags its way like a snake through the Maze. At one end stands the sleaziest, skungiest, most disreputable dive in all of Sanctuary: Sly's Place. Since Sly's death several years ago no one knows who owns the place, but it is run by a huge man in a mailed vest. His name is Ahdio. His origin is questionable, but in this neighborhood so is everyone else's, To the right of Sly's Place is a dark, narrow, dirty, uninviting lane known as Odd Dirt's Dodge. Nobody lives there, or will admit they do. The wider street to the left of Sly's is the Street of Tanners. The stench there on a hot day can make even a Downwinder nauseous. Three blocks down Tanners is the location of Zandulas's Tannery. Zandulas is a friendly enough fellow, if he would ever bathe. Zandulas's supplies Chollandar's Glue Shop next door. The proprietor, called Cholly by his friends, makes the finest glues and pastes in town. He uses only the best ingredients: tree sap, inedible fish, hooves and unusable hides, flour, acids and other compounds from the chemists, and people. Each night in Thieves' World people meet violent ends. Some die by accident, others by "accident," others by design. Most are left where they lie or dropped in some dark alley. Many of them have led useless lives and belong to a social class deemed worthless. No matter what his life had been, in death no man is worthless to the gluemaker. Under license from the Governor he and an apprentice go out with a wagon every morning and pick up the remains from the previous night's mayhem as a social service. Cholly will not, however, pick up a corpse that has appar- ently died of disease. Those he leaves for the Charnel House wagon. 308 UNEASY ALLIANCES For a substantial fee he also makes house calls. The bodies are stripped and dismembered and the goods sorted. Scalps go to a wigmaker, clothes and leather goods and weapons to used goods dealers in those items, gold teeth and jewelry to jewelers. The rendered tallow is ladled off and sold to a soapmaker. The bones are dried and used to help fuel the fires under the great iron pots. Yet all these are bonuses, for the primary product is glue. Nothing is ever wasted at Chol- landar's. Cholly awoke from an elbow nudged into his amply padded ribs. He grumbled and rolled over, snuggling deeper beneath the woolen blanket. The elbow returned with greater force. "Get up. It's time you left for work." "Yes, Pet," he groaned. A small tortoise-shell calico named Crumpet was sitting on his hip, purring loudly. She was a smearing of orange and black with a white chin, feet, and belly. The gluemaker often called her—lovingly—the ugli- est cat in Sanctuary. He picked her up and gently placed her at the foot of the bed before crawling out from beneath the covers- He pulled on a faded black tunic and belted it with his weapons belt. On the belt were a dagger, an Ilbarsi knife, and the axe he used for dismembering corpses and chopping firewood. Onto bare legs he drew soft-soled knee boots. A knife was sheathed in the top of the right one. Finally he wriggled into his vest, heavy leather covered with iron rings, and slid his wax-boiled vambraces onto his forearms. He did all of this in the dark so Ineedra could go back to sleep. He kissed her and went downstairs to the kitchen. "Oh, all right, nuisance," he gently chided the cat nibbing against his leg and purring. "You know, most cats have to find their own food.'* He fed the puss some chopped meat and fixed himself a thick slice of hard sausage and a wedge of cheese between two pieces of black bread. He washed it down with watered wine. Crumpet finished eating before he did and began preening herself, ignoring him with that aloofness only felines are capable of. It was a miserable morning. Usually Cholly took his time to walk to the shop, but not in this downpour. The cobblestones were slippery and unpaved streets were slimy bogs. Twice he had to backtrack and take a different street. At least his greased boots and oilcloth cloak kept him relatively dry. He opened the big brass lock and replaced the key in his pouch. The front portion of the shop consisted of row upon row of shelves full of clay jars, each jar marked with a symbol that told him what compound the A STICKY BUSINESS 309 pot contained. At the rear, in front of a curtained doorway, stood a large wooden counter. He slapped his hand onto the counter and was answered by a yelp. "Aram, get up. It's time to get started. Go wake up Sambar." A tall, lanky youth of perhaps sixteen years crawled sleepily out from beneath the counter, yawning widely. He stood and stretched, scratched, and ran one hand through a shaggy mop of blond curls. "Morning, master," he yawned. Aram went through the curtained doorway and crossed the brick floor of the rendering room with its four huge iron pots, firewood and dry bones in the rack, and shelves and bins of ingredients. On one side was a butcher's beam and a water pump. A second curtained door, wider than the first, opened onto the stable. Enkidu and Eshi, two grays with hooves the size of dinner plates, were in their stalls. In one comer of Enkidu's stall a pudgy boy witli olive skin snored beneath a coarse wool blanket- "Get up, Lazybones. Old Baldpate's here. Rise and shine," Aram an- nounced, giving the fourteen-year-old a kick. "Already?" Sambar stood and shook the straw from his blanket, folded it, and hung it across the stall divider. Satisfied, he brushed the straw from his tunic and began picking pieces from his blue-black straight hair. By the time the boys had had a bite of bread and cheese and gotten the horses harnessed, the rising sun had barely lightened the tenebrous clouds to putrescent gray. Thunder rumbled like an empty barrel rolling down a cobbled street. Instead of forked streaks, lightning flashed in weak patches scattered randomly on the face of the thunderhead. The White Foal would overflow again and uncover the trench graves of the unnamed flood and fire victims. Rain cascaded off their oilskins in icy torrents. Enkidu was prancing, ignoring the weather and enjoying his work. Eshi sulked, wanting to return to her nice warm dry stable. Aram was walking ahead because visibility was so poor. They had just turned onto Odd Birt's Dodge. "I see one, back of Sly's." Gray water splashed at every step of Aram's greased buskins. "Father Us' beard! He's still bleeding!" "Can we help him? Is he still alive?" "No, Cholly. His head's nearly cut off." "Do you see anybody? The killer may still be around close." Aram drew his dagger. Cholly climbed down from the driver's seat and unsheathed the Ilbarsi long knife. There was no one to be found. The door to Sly's Place was securely barred and a search of the area revealed no one hiding. No one had gone past them- 310 UNEASY ALLIANCES "I don't understand. It would take a magician to get out of here with- out us seeing him," Aram said. "Anything is possible," Cholly replied. Aram jumped down and ran to open the stable doors, jumping over the bigger puddles. The double doors swung open easily. Cholly backed the wagon inside. Aram unhitched the team, wiped them down, covered them with dry blankets, and gave them food and water. Only then did he stop to remove his rain gear. He replaced his wet leather gloves and apron with dry ones. Cholly was smoking a pipe while he inspected the pots Sambar had been left to clean and fill. It was a minor vice, but one to which his wife objected, ". . . because it stinks up the entire house. Even my hair smells like smoke," There was nothing in Sanctuary that he feared, that he was not mar- ried to. Neither wizard nor demon, man nor god, living or dead. When the night was filled with the undead of Ischade and Roxane, he had dispatched several of the poor wights, beheading them so they might return to the hell they had been called back from. Not all of them were eager to go. One, a former Stepson, had argued for over an hour that it was not dead. It even had the gall to draw a shortsword and threaten the gluemaker. Fortunately the expression "the quick and the dead" was inappropriate. Cholly hacked the zombie to pieces with his axe to prove his point. Sure enough, the Stepson was dead. Over a dozen bodies were stacked in the wagon. Five had come from Red Lanterns or nearby, indicating it had been a busy night. Three bod- ies were female. One had even been pretty, in a cheap way. "You see," Sambar chided while he and Aram began unloading the wagon, "this is what happens to people who spend all their money at the Slippery Lily." "I hope they had at least finished their business and were leaving. It would be a shame to die without gettin' what they came there for," Aram chuckled. "One of these Moonday mornings you may come in with the load as a client, not a passenger." "I can take care of myself." "The least you'll get is Eshi's measles." "I haven't had a dose yet. Besides, it isn't fattening like your candy. In another year your taste will run to sweets of another sort. Mark my words." A STICKY BUSINESS 311 "Idiot!" Markmor shrieked- "Fool of a fool!" The young man with flowing silver hair trembled at the tirade, staring at the floor lest the most powerful mage in Sanctuary look him in the eye. Until a few years ago the apprentice wizard's father, Mizraith, had been the chief of those mages not bound by the Rankan Mageguild's hazard- ous rites. Markmor had been a brash upstart, scarcely more than a child by sorcerous or any other standards. Yet he had slain Mizraith fairly in a wizard's duel and thereby proved himself supreme among those who held to the magical traditions of Ilsig. He'd had to lie low a while—feigning death, abandoning his skein of spells lest he be drawn into the mage- killing and god-killing that had beset Sanctuary these last few years. But he'd survived, and returned, and meant to recapture everything he'd lost, with interest. "Th-there wasn't time, Master," Marype stammered. "I was just slit- ting the messenger's throat when I heard horses. I vanished for just a moment, hoping whoever it was would pass by. When I returned the body was gone." "All you had to do was take the amulet and run. You didn't even have to kill him. A blow on the head would have done the job-' How could it be so difficult?" Markmor's robes of shiny vermilion silk brushed the polished marble floor as he paced angrily. His short hair and pointed beard were as black as his soul. Beneath a single shaggy brow his amethyst eyes were blazing with rage. Several moments of threatening silence passed before he continued, "Do you have any idea how valuable that bauble is? Not only to me, but to all of us who stand outside the Guild? Much less what could happen if it ever reaches the first Hazard as it was supposed to? Do you see the danger your bungling has placed us in? Do you? Do you?" "I think so, Master." Marype cringed. "No, that's your trouble, Marype. You don't think. If you had you wouldn't have left the amulet behind. There are times when I wonder why I took you into my service. I really do. "Now tell me again—from the beginning—exactly what happened. If the person who has the amulet has not yet discovered its powers we may not be too late." "I had been following him from bar to bar. By Argash's bloody nails that man could drink! Eventually he wandered down the Serpentine to Sly's Place, but it was closed. Despite all I had seen him drink he wasn't staggering, so I hung back at a short distance to await an opportunity. As luck would have it ... AAAHCHOOO!—Sorry, I may have caught a cold in the rain last night—he stopped to relieve himself. I transported 312 UNEASY ALLIANCES myself to a spot right behind him. Even as I slashed his throat I heard the clatter of hoofbeats and at least two men talking. They sounded very close, and coming closer. I knew that the amulet would have made escape impossible, so I gambled that the amulet would look too cheap to be worth stealing. I vanished for just a moment. When I returned the entire body was gone." "Did you see anyone about? Anyone at all?" "It was pouring. Even the beggars were hiding somewhere. He was gone without a trace. I searched and searched. AACHOO!" "Marype, you surprise me. You really do. You left the amulet on him in the hopes it would look too worthless to steal. Correct? Every child knows that Mazers and Downwinders steal anything that is not nailed down too securely to pry up. If you didn't have your father's talent in your blood I wouldn't put up with you. Such talent deserves training, but you severely try my patience, "Still, all is not lost. Perhaps we can scry its location." The day's first customer was small, with delicate bones and a slender figure. Her face was veiled and a scarf almost hid her mane of chestnut hair. Although she dressed as a lady's maid, her bearing was more suited to giving orders than taking them. She looked around nervously, making sure no other customer was about. At last: "You are Chollandar?" He nodded. "How may this humble gluemaker serve you. Milady?" "I was told you will pick up ... uh-uh-uh . . ." "Raw materials, Ma'am. Raw materials. For a fee we will pick up that which you no longer desire, and turn it into a variety of useful products. We do stipulate, however, that the goods must be ready to use without further treatment. Do you understand?" "Yes. You mentioned a fee. You will do it, then?" "Certainly, Beautiful Lady. For ten soldats we will remove your raw materials from any address you name—which we promptly forget. For this reason we ask for advance payment. Otherwise we might remember and send a bill. Does this pose some problem?" To his surprise she did not haggle. / should've asked for more, he thought. She gave him the address and turned to leave. "A moment. Milady." Cholly held out a clay jar. She looked at him in puzzlement, then took the jar. "This is a glue shop. If you leave with one of my Jars anyone who sees you will see why you have come and notice nothing else." Her veiled face whitened. "I hadn't thought of that." A STICKY BUSINESS 313 "By the way, this variety is made especially for porcelain and ceramics. It does wonders on broken dishes." After she had hurried away, the clay jar held where it could be seen, Sambar came through the curtained doorway. "Master, why do you al- ways insist that the pickup be dead? Wouldn't they pay more if you did it for them?" "They would, but I will not take blood money. See, I deal in death every day without adding to it. If people want to kill each other, I can't stop 'em. But I'll be damned if I'll do it for 'em." With the work on the city walls and the repairs from the aftermath of the witches' fire and flood, business was brisk. Kadakithis's workmen had bought an entire wagonload of mixed varieties. The new tax was at least being spent for the purpose it was collected for, rather than lining the Prince-Governor's purse. Privately Cholly had no use for magicians, but that did not prevent him from doing business with them. One came in seeking a human skull. Another, a lanky fellow with graying hair and beard and an unusually dynamic voice, came seeking fingerbones. These gentlemen never knew that their treasures came from his fuel pile of dried leftover bones. A third aspiring thaumaturge sought a hand of glory. Cholly went back into the rendering room once more. There was a chunking sound. A moment later he returned with a severed human left hand. One last minor magician—the truly powerful ones needed no such props—requested an entire human skin. He was sent next door. Zandulas would pay him a referral fee later. When business slowed down enough for him to check on the boys, Cholly saw that they had been busy indeed. The bodies had all been stripped and the belongings sorted into neat piles, according to type. The smallest pile by far was money. They were honest enough lads, but he knew they kept a few coppers, even as he had done when he was appren- ticed to old Shi Han Two-Fingers. He sent Sambar to the front counter while he and Aram scalped, bled, and dismembered the remaining corpses. Once the bodies and the proper additives were mixed into the scalding water to his satisfaction he told Aram, "When you get time, take those barrels of tallow across the alley to Reh Shing the Soapmaker. It's time I started my rounds." Chollandar scratched the back of his neck. For a moment it itched like someone was staring at him. He always began his trading at Shamara's Wig Shop. In her youth Shamara had been striking. Her present beauty was of a different sort, a warmth that radiated from her sweet soul. They dickered for a bit, UNEASY ALLIANCES 314 Shamara fingering the scalps for quality and texture. At last they settled upon three silver bits, eight coppers, and a kiss. "The things I do for business," Shamara laughed before pressing her lips beneath his moustache. There was no lustful passion there, but there was something undefinable. "Enough. You make me feel like a girl, and I've survived that nonsense already." He whistled a happy tune all the way to Marc's Weapons Shop. Most of Marc's goods were shoddy, but so were the weapons Cholly sold him. The really good stuff he sold separately. Some special blades he kept for himself. Even so, he sometimes ran across an interesting piece in Marc's stock. Cholly regularly had lunch with Furtwan Coinpinch while Hazen, Furtwan's nephew, watched the shop and kept an eye on the gluemaker's wagon. Today they decided on beef, so they found themselves a quiet table at the Man in Motley, where a joint was always skewered to the carving board. "Anything interesting happen last night?" Furtwan asked between swallows of True Brew. Cholly did not answer right away. He felt the feeling return that he was being watched. By whom and for what reason he had no idea. He scratched his neck again. No one seemed to be looking in his direction, but he knew damned well someone was spying on him. The itch was stronger. He slid his right hand under the table, pretending to scratch his bare calf. He assured himself the extra knife was in place in his boot. Good. The two men gossiped spiritedly for an hour. When Cholly left the shop the itch returned. If anything, it was stronger. The most unsettling part was that he could spot no sign of anyone following him, yet he knew they were there. But who? And why? He missed the friendly greetings he used to get from Ganner, Lalo's son who was slain by the mobs in the False Plague riots. He had enjoyed the brief chats they used to have. Instead of Ganner it was Herwick himself who met him at the door. The jeweler still wore the symbolic torn collar and black armband of mourning. "Good to see you, Cholly. Are you here to buy or sell? I believe Ineedra has a birthday coming up. Next week maybe?" "Next Eshday. The trouble is she still hasn't given me a hint what she wants like she usually does, or else for once she's been so subtle I missed it." "You can't go wrong with good jewelry. I've got some nice new pieces. Take a look. I could make you such a deal . . -" A STICKY BUSINESS 315 "Not today, I've got a few days yet in case she drops a hint. In the meantime 1 did bring you a few trinkets to examine." He fished a folded square of cloth from his tunic. Unfolding it upon the counter, he displayed a jumble of glittering ornaments. Most were cheap junk, worth a copper or two apiece. A few were good quality paste and worth a bit more. Two pins were set in real gold and sparkling gem- stones. Finally there was a solid gold pendant covered with strange mark- ings. "Where did you get this? I've never seen this type of workmanship before. Most unusual. And raw gold! I can't read it; it isn't Rankan or Ilsigi. It isn't Beysib—I've had too many Fisheyes in here not to recog- nize it when I see it. If it was older I might guess it might be Enlibaran." "Now that I've had a good look at it, I think I'll keep it for the time being. It's sort of interesting. Can you think of anybody who might be able to tell me what it says?" "Try Synab. If anyone can tell you, he can." His next stop was Synab's artifact and curio shop just down the street. The daub of blue paint smeared on the door meant the pwner was paying protection to someone. Cholly himself had never paid anyone for "pro- tection" and he vowed he never would. A bell jingled when he entered. The white-haired man in green linen said, "I haven't seen you lately. I trust you have something of interest for me?" "Maybe. I found this medallion in this morning's goods. Can you decipher the writing?" The little man's bushy eyebrows raised. His sallow face turned ashen. His gnarled hands trembled, dropping the bauble onto the counter as if it had suddenly become hot. After a moment he said, "Do me a favor, Cholly. Go. Get that thing out of here. Please." "Why? Mother Bey's balls, man, at least tell me what's wrong." "I guess I owe you that much. I can't read it, but I've seen enough relics to recognize it. There is one word here I do know: the name Theba." "Isn't she some sort of death goddess?" "Yes. Anything connected with her has to mean trouble. If I were you, I'd get rid of it as quickly as I could." Cholly thanked him and left. His unseen stalker was still there. The tingle was so strong it was becoming painful. Hopefully whoever it was would not make his move until after Cholly reached Renn, his banker. Renn was one of the few men in Sanctuary he completely trusted. Due to the armed men at the door and some less obvious defenses, no one had 316 UNEASY ALLIANCES ever robbed Renn's bank and lived to reach the door. Thieves had gotten the message and stayed away. The gluemaker deposited most of his cash and got a receipt, keeping out enough to pay the boys, take Ineedra out to a nice dinner, and enough left over to go to the games at Land's End and have a few coppers to bet. Compared to what he had been carrying it was spare change. Unfortunately his tracker didn't seem interested in money. Upon his return to the Street of Money the feeling intensified. Damn! He wished whoever it was would make his move. This cat-and-mouse ploy was making him angry. Maybe he could shake them up a bit. He turned Enkidu and Eshi onto Olive Branch, sped down to Saddlers and turned left, leaping off the wagon as soon as he thought his pursuer could not see him for a moment. He stepped through the doorway of a tack shop and waited. Two thugs came running around the comer. One was of average size; the other was short and round, like a beer keg with legs. They were trotting to keep the wagon in sight. For a middle-aged fat man in a ring-mailed vest, he moved quietly. And quickly. Any sound made by his soft-soled knee boots was masked by the din of street noises: beggars asking alms, shopkeepers and custom- ers haggling, the clop of horseshoes on cobblestones, children shouting and playing. The shorter man was lagging a few steps behind his partner, panting. He never heard anything suspicious. The taller man glanced over his shoulder in time to see the barrel-man topple from the flat of Cholly's axe. Before he could break away a large hand extending from a wax-boiled vambrace had grabbed a handful of his tunic and slammed him against a brick wall, driving the air from his lungs. His head bounced against the bricks, painfully but not far. He became acutely aware of the axe haft pressed against his throat when he struggled to inhale. A melon-sized knee pressing into his stones also caught his attention- Cholly's normally merry hazel eyes were narrow slits of cold green. His voice was calm, even, almost a whisper. "Why are you following me?" "I wasn't. (Cough)" Cholly towered his knee slightly, then snapped it upward. "Don't lie to me or you'll sing soprano. Let's start again. You were about to tell me why you followed me." Tears filled the tall man's eyes. "I swear I wasn't following you." He would've screamed when the knee drove into his crotch if it weren't for the wooden haft flattening his gullet. A STICKY BUSINESS 317 "Let's try again, shall we? I ask you a question, you answer it. Hon- estly. For the last time, why were you tailing me?" "All right," he whimpered. "We was paid a silver bit apiece to rob you." Tears rolled down his dirty unshaven cheeks. "Fool. If it was money you wanted you would have jumped me before I reached my banker. You didn't make your move, although you've been chasing me all afternoon. So what are you after that is worth dying for?" "The medallion." "What makes it so valuable?" Cholly demanded. "Don't know. He didn't tell us. He just paid us to get it." "Who paid you?" "He didn't give us a name. He was dressed in magician's robes." "What did he look like?" "Silver hair—" The knife just missed Cholly's ear before burying itself in the tall man's eye. Blood and clear liquid gushed out of the wound. The dying man jerked once and went limp. Cholly released his hold. The body slid down the wall, the stubby knife handle still protruding from the eye socket. The barrel-man was just vanishing into an alley. "I should've hit him harder," the gluemaker muttered. He gave a shrill whistle and Enkidu and Eshi backed up. Business was business. He loaded the dead man into his wagon and covered him with canvas. No one thought it unusual for him to be picking up somebody this early. There were accident victims all the time. It was common practice to mind one's own business. Babbo shifted his weight from foot to foot while wringing his un- washed hands. His gaze never left the floor. The room was cool, but the hireling's stained homespun tunic was damp with sweat. "What in the Shadowed One's name are you saying? How could he get away? There were two of you! Both armed! Do you mean to tell me two of the best muggers in the Maze were bested by a bald old shopkeeper?" Marype raged. "He was good," Babbo said defensively. "Dorien was one of the best men I knew in a brawl. When I came to—I never heard him coming before he busted my head—he had poor Dorien pinned against the wall with an axe handle and a knee pushing Dor's balls up to his belly button. Believe me, the man is good. How do you think he got that old? Only way I could shut Dor up was to spike 'im." "Why didn't you knife the gluemaker instead?" "Look, I didn't have a lot of time, you know? I wasn't in no shape to tangle with the man. Maybe I just throwed amongst 'em and ran. Be- 318 UNEASY ALLIANCES sides, you're the magician; why didn't you do something? Turn fatso into something?" "As long as he has the amulet, magic doesn't work on him. Why else would I hire you two bunglers?" "Big hotshot magician," Babbo retorted. "You can't do the job with your spells, so you hire us. Then you got the balls to come down on me 'cause I didn't get him neither. Far as I'm concerned you can go diddle yourself. See ya around. Cotton-top," he snorted, his fear replaced by contempt. It was crowded in the stands Lowan Vigeles had built at his Land's End estate and the stone benches were uncomfortable. The spectators had already swilled down enough Red Gold to be rowdy. Zandulas and Cholly were hooting and hollering with the rest. The early rounds had been condemned criminals pitted against each other. Not much skill there; mostly brute strength. Chollandar preferred the chariot races. He was picking them well. The fourth race had just ended, and for the third time he was collecting his winnings. Zandulas, who was zero for four, got to his feet with a sour grin. "I'm getting a brew before the final heat. Want one?" "No thanks, Zan. Want me to place any bets for you?" "Neh. Oh all right. If I'm not back in time, just put two coppers on whoever you pick." Cholly's favorite driver was Borak. Behind his three chestnut geldings Borak's long oily whip moved like a living creature, while he used the bladed wheel hubs better than most men wield a sword. The other drivers in today's final race were Magyar driving whites, Atticus with dappled grays, and Crispen with a second team of whites. No second-raters there. Everywhere were shouts of "Six coppers on Atticus," "Two on Mag- yar," "Four on Atticus," "Eight on Crispen," Caught up in the betting, Cholly shouted, "Two silver on Borak!" "Take 'em all. I'll cover the balance," Zandulas whispered, returning. "I'd have taken Atticus, but then I haven't been right all afternoon and you're on a hot streak. I just hope it holds." The big money bets were in the box seats, stacks of golden soldats. The difference was that those in the boxes could usually afford to lose. The simple townsfolk in the cheap seats were hard pressed if they lost a handful of coppers. The tingle was back. Someone was watching him again. Four teams entered the track, having drawn lots for position. Cholly frowned. Borak was on the outside. Next to Borak came Crispen, then A STICKY BUSINESS 319 Magyar, and finally Atticus at the advantageous inside spot. The games master dipped the flag and they were off. Horses crowded each other. Sharpened steel zinged each time the wheels whirred close together. Crispen forced Borak into the wall, but the wily veteran kept control. Dust flew as his blades gouged the masonry. To even the score he flicked his whip, welting the closest white racer's hindquarters. The horse broke stride. It took only a moment to get back in sync, but that was enough. Cholly looked around. Was that a flash of silver hair in the crowd behind him? Maybe it was a woman who had joined in the fad. Maybe not. His left hand rested upon the hilt of the Ilbarsi knife. A white stallion screamed when it was hit by a blade, chewing his rear leg off at the gaskin. The crowd roared. The animal's fall yanked the singletree to one side, causing the rest of the team to wheel, overturning the chariot. Magyar's hand was caught in the reins and he was dragged along beneath. The silver hair was out of sight, but not gone. Cholly could feel it. Zandulas was shouting, "Did you see that?" By the last lap Borak was ahead of Atticus by half a length. Crispen had gotten tangled in Magyar's wreck and lost too much time to make it up. "Collect my winnings," he told Zandulas. "Why? Where're you going?" "Must be the Red Gold. I'm not feeling so good," Cholly lied. He could hear the crowd shouting Borak's name as he hurried down the steps. A knife darted at him but was deflected by the iron and leather vest he wore. He was lucky, and knew it. Once out of the estate, Cholly ran as fast as his thick legs could carry him through the construction gangs working on the walls, through a gap in the emerging wall itself, then darted down twisting alleys and taking random turns. Few others knew the streets as well as this man who traveled them each morning. Soon he would reach the docks. He saw no sign of pursuit, but the feeling remained. The Winebarrel catered to fishermen. Most of the clientele knew Cholly. They bought glue from him to use on their boats. He, in turn, or his apprentices, bought unsold or inedible fish from them. He was made welcome. Of all the folk in Sanctuary, only the fishers had truly accepted the Beysib—at least the Setmur clan of Beysib—because the newcomers were hard workers, honest and good sailors. Inside the net-hung walls of the Winebarrel, all seamen were brothers, comrades-in-arms in the endless battle to eke a living from the merciless sea. It was not surprising then that the one-armed Ilsigi should be sharing 320 UNEASY ALLIANCES his table with a small, quiet fish-eyed man. Cholly walked over and joined them- For a moment the tingle was gone, or else so weak he did not notice it. Omat, the Ilsigi fisherman, gestured with his glass. "You're getting thinner on top and thicker in the middle. And you look like you could use a drink. Pull up a stool and let me buy you one. You know Monkel Setmur, don't you? Monkel, Cholly here makes the best damned glue you can buy—" "—Or get in trade. What fisherman doesn't know Cholly?" the small man said, smiling sincerely and extending his hand. "What brings you to the Winebarrel?" "I'm in a real fix. Somebody's trying to kill me. I found this medallion in the stuff I took in this morning. Ever since then, someone's been on my tail. Two gutter rats tried to waylay me, but I caught 'em off guard. I conked one on the head and put the other up against the wall. That's how I found out the connection with the medallion I'd found, and that they'd been hired by a wizard-type with silver hair. But, I hadn't hit the first one hard enough, and he knifed his partner through the eye before I got any more. "Just a little while ago I was out at Land's End. I saw someone with silver hair in the crowd near me, so I decided to get out of there. He followed me long enough to throw a knife, only he didn't take this vest into account." "Can we do anything to help, Cholly?" Omat asked. "Run me around to White Foal Bridge by water. That should get him off me for a while." "I could use a bit of fresh air. Coming with us, Monkel?" The little fellow nodded. The dying sun was streaking the western sky with its blood when Cholly parted the thirty-one cords with their thirty-one knots. "You're early today," Ahdio commented. "Anything wrong? You look upset." "You might say that. I need a brew—the good stuff. Say, what hap- pened to Cleya? I see the pretty one is back. Jodeera? Isn't that her name?" Ahdio looked down into the other man's eyes—not too far down, for he was only an inch or so taller—and paled slightly. "What did you say? That's Cleya right there." "Quit kidding. I'm looking right at her." Ahdio stood silent for a moment then said, "Would you mind stepping into the back with me a moment where we can talk?" A STICKY BUSINESS 321 The two men walked back to the stockroom. Ahdio closed the door and turned to face Cholly. He looked worried. "How did you know?" "Know what?" "That Cleya and Jodeera are the same." "Oh, come on. Cleya is a sweet girl, but she is skinny and sort of homely, like a stray cat. Not that I don't like her, but she isn't even in the same league with that lovely creature." "They are the same. I'm going to trust you because I like you. See, when Jodeera first came to work here there was trouble. Remember?" The gluemaker nodded, paying close attention. "It wasn't her fault she was so pretty, but it did make the boys rowdy, trying to outdo each other. I didn't want to send her away. I love her. What could I do? I had a spell put on her to hide her beauty from all eyes but mine. How'd you see through it?" "Maybe this had something to do with it." He fished the gold medal- lion from inside his tunic. "Take it off. I'll hold it. You go back and look. Tell me if you see Cleya or Jodeera." He returned a moment later. "Cleya. It was the medallion." "Where did you get it?" Cholly told his story again. Ahdio stroked his chin glaring from his friend, to the medallion then at the door to the taproom. "You got trou- ble here," he said, returning the medallion. "Bad cess. Look, I have this old war buddy named Strick. He's a magician. Hold on, he's not like the ones you've seen. He's strictly a white mage . . . literally can't use his powers for evil. Take my word, he's one of the good guys. Tell him I sent you." "Where do I find him?" "You mean to tell me you lost him again?!" Markmor screamed, his face almost as livid as his robes. "I almost got him at Land's End. How was I to know the knife would bounce off his vest?" Marype cowered. "Then what happened?" "I followed him to the docks. It wasn't easy. He must know every twist and turn of every alley in town. He went into a place called the Winebar- rel, and when he came out he was with two other men. One was a fish- face, and the other had one arm. They got into a boat and rowed away. I had to be careful. People tend to notice when you appear and disappear in public. Besides, as long as he has the amulet not even you can trace him by magic." 322 UNEASY ALLIANCES "You insolent pup, you brainless piece of dung, do you dare to ques- tion my powers?" the would-be greatest magician in Sanctuary roared. Marype cringed even more. "I don't doubt your power, Master, but did not you yourself tell me that the gods themselves have no power over the one who wields the talisman?" "Precisely, imbecile. That is how we shall find him." "I don't understand." "I didn't think you would- By Argash, if I want something done right, I'd best do it myself. Pay attention and you may learn something. First we cast the Net of All-Seeing over the city in the name of Father Us." "What good will that do, Master? We still can't see him." "Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you. Tell me, do you ever use your head for something besides growing hair? Think! With this spell we can see the entire city at once except for one blind spot. Wherever that blind spot is, there we shall find the ine who has the medallion." He was bigger than Ahdio, but only slightly so. He moved like a swordsman, keeping his weight evenly distributed and his gaze unfixed, looking at nothing yet seeing everything. It seemed odd that he wore no weapon, not even a dagger. He was dressed all in blue from boots to skull cap. "My niece says that you would not tell her your problem. You would tell her only that Ahdio sent you. You confuse me. I see a spell about you that is not a spell, something that is not magic yet very powerful. Is this the problem you wish to consult me about?" Cholly removed the chain from his neck and handed the medallion to Strick. "I am a simple gluemaker- Each morning my apprentice and I take a wagon through town to pick up the bodies left from the night before. I make glue from them. It's all legal; I have a charter giving me the right to pick them up and dispose of them for the city. This medallion was on one of the ones we took in this morning. Since then I have had two attempts on my life, I have been followed every step I take, and I have discovered that when 1 wear it I can see through a magic spell. What I want to know is: just what is it, really?" Strick handed back the medallion. "Do you know of the goddess Theba? According to legend she declared that nothing, not even gods, should be immortal. Gods, you see, live on many planes at once. If they die they still live on all the other planes. That's what happened to Vashanka—gone from here, but not dead. Now it seems Theba was ambi- tious and didn't want to pursue her rivals through the infinite planes, so one night she called down a star from the sky. It fell like a blazing comet, A STICKY BUSINESS 323 and in its heart was a lump of unearthly gold. Theba took the white hot nugget in her bare hands, she shaped the medallion, then inscribed it with her fingernail, and quenched it in the blood of a virgin." "Sounds like a real sweetheart." "That, says legend, is how the Spell of No Spells was cast, a spell that cancels all magic. Perhaps antimagic is the proper term. Its power nulli- fies all spells and powers. It is the supreme defense against magic. There is one catch. It also cancels any magic the wearer possesses. Spells, bless- ings, curses; all are useless." "Let me see if I can take it from there. Immortality is a supernatural gift, right? So, if a god had the medallion, he's no longer a god; he's mortal, and can die like anybody else. Right?" "Yes, but even Theba was appalled when She felt her rival die the one, true death. She threw Her tnnket away, and 't fell into mortal hands. Most mages—including myself—want nothing to do with it: Its risks outweigh any possible rewards. But there are always a few like Theba, caught in the blind throes of ambition, greed or jealousy. "Be careful, Cholly. At least one mage, maybe more, wants Theba's medallion and knows you have it. Because of what it is, because of what he is to want it in the first place, and because as long as you wear it no one can tell for certain if you're a powerful wizard or an ordinary gluemaker—because of these, you're a marked man, my friend." "Thanks for the information. How much do I owe you?" "Nothing. I could not help you with your problem, and I charge only for services rendered." "Well, I feel I owe you something for telling me about the talisman. I'll tell you what: the next time you need to mend anything, send word to me what you are working on, and I'll send over the right compound for the job with my compliments. How about that?" "You are a fair man, gluemaker. I have enjoyed meeting you, and I hope you solve your problem." Cholly stopped by the shop and paid the boys their weekly bit of copper. Sambar would spend all his at the bakery and sweets shop. Give him another year or two and he'd be paying for sweets of the same sort as Aram. Father Us but that lad was randy! It was only blind luck the boy hadn't yet contracted a dose- Ah, youth! Before he left in his best clothes Aram said, "Some fellow was in here looking for you. The first time was the middle of the afternoon, then he came back a little while ago. He didn't say what he wanted, just that he wanted to speak to you. Special pickup, I guess." "Did he leave a name? What did he look like?" 324 UNEASY ALLIANCES "No name, but he's easy to recognize. He's got all this silvery hair and he dresses like a magician. Know him?" "In a way. I think I've seen him. How would you like a bit of extra pocket money?" Aram's eyes lit up. "Go run ahead to Ahdio, at Sly's Place, and tell him I'm going to need his backroom for a while. And tell him to ask his friend Strick to join us- Do that and I'll give you an extra week's pay." Aram was gone like an arrow. Cholly walked down the rows and picked out jars of glue and solvent. From beneath the counter he took a satchel of several brushes. He hoped this wouldn't take long. He was already late, and Ineedra would have his head on a salver. He'd better take her to Hari's or the Golden Oasis to unruffle her feathers once this business was over with. Ahdio didn't recognize any of the trio who strutted into the crowded tavern, and he usually remembered faces. One of them, the youngest, did have a flowing silver mane, so these must be the ones he was watching for. The squat, broad red-faced one asked Throde, "Hey, Gimp' You seen Cholly da Gluemaker in here? We was s'posed to meet up wit' 'im." "Not that I recall, but we've been pretty busy. Ask Ahdio," Throde replied, nodding at the mountainous man in the mail vest. He smiled and hobbled away to deliver his tray of beers, giving Ahdio a wink in passing. Again it was the toadish one who spoke. "You Ahdio?" Ahdio smiled. "What will you have, gentlemen?" "You seen Cholly da Gluemaker? We'll make it worth ya while. We got bidness wit' 'im, see?" said the red-faced man, bouncing a coin on his palm. Ahdio held out his hand. "Maybe." The man tossed the coin onto Ahdio's broad palm. Ahdio neither spoke nor moved his hand until several copper coins were stacked there. "He's in the back room. Follow me." Cholly was watching the door. He noticed the argent hair at once, then he stared at the others. The dark one in red damask silk was the obvious leader, a man accustomed to power as his due. "What the hell is that?" he wondered, seeing the last of the trio enter through the doorway. It was shaped sort of like one of the rendering pots in the shop, squat and rotund with thick stubby legs ending in homed, splayed, webbed three-toed feet. It had ears like a donkey, little beady rat's eyes, and a A STICKY BUSINESS 325 wide froggish mouth full of long yellow-green teeth. Its thick muscular arms hung down so low its knobby knuckles dragged the ground. Its matted, scraggly feathers were the color of iron rust. Topping it all off was something resembling a coxcomb. It had no head or neck per se. It was ugly. He gestured for the two men to sit opposite him in the booth. He asked Ahdio to bring a chair and three large beers for his guests. "Nothing personal, you understand. I'd just rather not sit where I'm hemmed in. We haven't been introduced. My name is Chollandar. And you?" He spoke to the black-bearded man. "No offense taken. I am called Markmor. This young fool is my ap- prentice, Marype." "Does the demon have a name?" "I'd forgotten you can see his true form. I'm afraid I can't tell you his real name. He does answer, however, to 'Rubigo.'" "Rubigo it is then." He took a sip of his Baladach wine. "How much will you take for it?" Marype asked,. Markmor glared at him. Rubigo snickered at such a breach of man- ners. Even he knew better. "I never discuss business until after a sociable drink. I wouldn't think of doing business with a man who won't have a friendly drink with me first. You seem to have some breeding, Markmor. Surely you understand. Perhaps in time your impatient apprentice will learn. If he's like my two, it may take a while." After what seemed an eternity with the demon standing sullenly by the door, Ahdio returned with a chair. Throde followed with a serving tray. Upon the tray were three pitcher-sized tankards holding perhaps a half gallon of Red Gold each, possibly more. Rubigo plopped down and hoisted a pewter tankard, chugging it into his mouth with hedonistic glee. Throde set the tray down and left. Cholly sipped his wine and asked, "Is beer all right? It's the best brand he carries. I forgot to ask." 'This is fine," Markmor answered, taking a tankard in both hands. Marype did likewise. Rubigo drained his in one long, gurgling, slurping pull. When he went to set the tankard down he made a startling discovery—the tankard was stuck to his lips and hands. He squealed in anger. When he tried to rise he found his feathers glued to the chair. Markmor and Marype realized the trap too late. They too were stuck. Their mouths and hands stuck to the tankards and their robes stuck to the booth. Even their shoes were stuck to the floor. The master wizard's 326 UNEASY ALLIANCES eyes seemed twin flames of amethyst. A growl of rage rumbled in his throat. There was a puff of sulfurous smoke and Rubigo's tankard clattered onto the wooden floor. An instant later the smoke cleared, revealing the demon standing in the center of the room. "Nice try, Fat Man. Too bad you didn't know us demons could jump planes just by thinkin' 'bout it. Haw-haw! Didn't nobody never tell ya not to go messin' wit' us? Now you gonna die, boy." "Are you sure? It seems to me that as long as I have the Theban Talisman you can't touch me. Suppose I used this axe of mine on you. How do you know it wouldn't kill you?" Rubigo paused a moment. Cholly eased out of his chair and slid his dismembering axe from its iron ring on his belt. He drew the Ilbarsi knife with his left hand. He waited, smiling. "One way to find out," Rubigo growled, swinging a long arm around to slash at Cholly with green adamantine claws. The hand had three webbed fingers plus a thumb. Cholly ducked easily. The demon was slow. Cholly hacked with the axe. Rubigo's hand fell to the floor. For a moment it lay wriggling. It vanished. The demon's wrist stopped oozing brackish fluid from the sev- ered stump because the hand was back. He had an ugly laugh. Uh-oh, Chollander thought. Chortling and drooling, Rubigo circled, intending to play with Cholly for a while before killing him. He lashed out with either hand, his claws raking the air around Cholly but not making contact. The gluemaker stayed calm, ducking and blocking, chopping and slashing at every open- ing. Once he darted in and managed to plant the axe deeply into Rubigo's chest, only to see the wound heal as soon as he removed the weapon. Markmor and Marype watched every move of man and monster over the tankard rims. The hellspawn was wearing the gluemaker down. He was untouched, but he was getting tired and winded. Sweat trickled into his eyes and the salt stung. He slid the Ilbarsi knife into its sheath and shifted the axe to a two-handed grip. He blinked and continued to block and counter and attack. He knew he would have to change tactics before exhaustion caused him to err. Damn, he thought. I've given him enough blows to kill a squad of men. but his fiendish magic heals him every time. If he was mortal I could take him apart. Cholly smiled. Changing back to a one-hand grip on the axe, he used his free hand to reach for the talisman. Yanking the chain over his head he said, "That's A STICKY BUSINESS 327 enough. This is what you're after. Take it. I can't fight any more. Just take the damned thing and leave me alone. I know when I'm beat." "That's more like it, Fatso. Youse is good, butcha ain't no match for da ol' demon. Now gimme." He caught the medallion in the palm of his webbed hand. Now he was going to kill the fat bald man, since there was nothing to restrain him. He looked over to the wizard and apprentice wizard, holding the bauble aloft and smiling. He looked back just in time to catch a sparkle of light reflecting from the gleaming blade descending. Realization flashed in his beady little eyes just before they rolled back into his head. Cholly picked up the medallion from the lifeless fingers, returning it back around his neck. Next he placed a foot upon the fiend's face and worked his axe free from the skull. Slipping the haft through its ring, he sat back down at the table. "That was thirsty work." He drew his long knife and placed it between himself and the magicians. He poured himself another goblet of wine and sipped it. He paused long enough to get out his pipe, fill it, and light it from the candle on the table. He took his time, seemingly ignoring the two prisoners. He would take a puff or two, blow a few smoke rings, and sip at his wine. All the while he kept smiling, sometimes idly playing with the Ilbarsi blade. "What am I going to do with you?" he said, breaking the tense silence. "If I let you go we'll be right back where we started, except I'll know who you are. I've got better things to do than play hide-and-seek with your hired flunkies and conjurings. I have to work for my living. "Have you ever seen glue being made? We start with a body. First we strip it naked and inspect for obvious disease. Next we lop off the hands and cut the throat and hang the body head-down to drain the blood. Are you following this? Oh yes, if the client has a nice head of hair—yours would fetch a pretty price, Marype—we scalp it before we hang it up." He paused to pour himself another serving of wine. Markmor looked nervous and Marype was quite pale. "Then we hack off the arms and legs and dump 'em in a big kettle of scalding water and render them down. We sell the fat to make soap, and dry the bones for firewood." Markmor looked nauseous and Marype's countenance was paler than his hair. Cholly sipped at his wine, inwardly smiling at achieving the desired reaction. He continued, "Look at it from my point of view. The only way to be sure I'm safe is to get rid of you. My way you can not only remain dead, but serve a useful purpose. I guess you know I don't like magicians much. 328 UNEASY ALLIANCES "On the other hand, I could spare your lives. The problem is: how do I know you won't attack me again? I suppose I could chop off your hands and cut out your tongues. Feet too, so you can't leam to use them for hands like a beggar I once saw. The eyes, naturally would have to go. Can either of you wiggle your ears? No? I'll leave them, then." Markmor stared at the man, unsure whether he was bluffing. If it were the other way around he knew what he would do. A combination of beer and fear finally took its toll upon Marype's bladder. Markmor turned to glance at his apprentice with disgust. Setting down his goblet, Cholly smiled. "Look on the bright side. You'll get to wear the Theban Talisman—for a few minutes at least. Isn't that what you wanted? Look at it from my point of view. Silverlocks here —acting on your behalf—has tried to kill me already. He did kill the fellow who had it before me. This chunk of gold is too powerful to give to the likes of you, and at the same time I have a living to make. I have to have some assurance you won't bother me again." Cholly knocked the dottle from his pipe, refilled it, and took another light from the candle while Markmor reflected upon what he had said. "Nature calls," he told his prisoners. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't go anywhere," he snickered, sliding out of the booth. He sheathed the Ilbarsi knife and stepped across Rubigo's carcass. Cholly returned several minutes later. Behind him came the big bar- tender, and behind him a bearded man even bigger, carrying a staff. The last man, largest of the three, was dressed in blue and seemed to radiate power. The wizards were trying unsuccessfully to escape. "Nicely done, Cholly. What are you going to do with them?" Strick asked, chuckling, "I haven't figured that one out yet. I can't let them go, but I'd rather not kill them unless I have to. Any ideas?" "There are a couple of things that could work. First, to a mage know- ing someone's true name gives you power over him." "That's why he wouldn't tell me the demon's name." "Right. Second, there is only one oath he cannot break: one sworn on his powers. All you have to do is make him tell you his true name and make him swear by it and on his powers to leave you alone. If he breaks that vow, at the very least his powers shall be forfeit for eternity." Markmor stared at the stranger. Only a magician could have spoken so certainly, yet this man was not known to him. He knew the few remain- ing Ilsigi mages, and the ones in the Mageguild, and the outsiders like Enas Yorl and Ischade. Whoever this upstart was, there would be a score to settle later. A STICKY BUSINESS 329 Ahdio spoke up. "How do you know if he is telling the truth? Wouldn't it be more likely he'd lie?" "A good point, my friend. I can be of some assistance there. This staff I carry is not just a walking stick. It is a Staff of Truth. Whoever touches it may not lie and live." Cholly puffed at his pipe, weighing the idea. Finally he asked, "What will it be, gentlemen? Will you take a vow to stop seeking the medallion and to leave me in peace?" Strick touched the staff to Markmor's head. He nodded. When it touched Marype's head he too nodded. Markmor growled into his tan- kard. "I'm going to free Markmor first. This will taste awful, and it will sting, but it will free your lips in a couple of minutes." Cholly reached under the table and withdrew a leather satchel. From it he removed a stoppered bottle and a brush. He kept brushing the liquid from the bottle onto the sorcerer's lips until they were freed from the tankard. The Staff of Truth rested upon his head. "Faugh! What was that unholy liquid?" he sputtered. "Trade secret. Just be glad it worked. Are you ready'to give me your name?" "Yes, damn you." Markmor gave his secret name. "Now, do you swear, upon that name you have just spoken and by your powers, to never again seek the Theban Talisman and to leave me and mine forever in peace?" "I so swear." "Say it, all of it." He said his name once more and swore on it and his powers. Marype was more difficult, mainly because he had drained his tankard and was not entirely sober. Finally Markmor growled, "Oh, for Anen's sake, take his bloody oath so we can get the hell out of here!" Cholly freed the younger man and received his vow and name. "May we leave now?" Markmor asked impatiently. "In a minute. I just thought you ought to know that if your fair-haired boy there had simply come to me this morning and made me a reasonable cash offer before I found out what it could do, you could have bought the talisman outright. Too bad you didn't try straight dealing, because when somebody tries to push me around I have this tendency to push back. You can go." Markmor's face was almost as scarlet as his silks. "You mean you never made the man an offer?! You mindless dungheap, where was your brain? You were dealing with a businessman. What do you think he does? 330 UNEASY ALLIANCES He buys and sells things, that's what he does. At times like this I could almost justify destroying you, talented or not. Brain damaged is what you are. Brain damaged . . ." He was still ranting as he and Marype faded from view, leaving their clothing still glued to the booth. Tears were trickling down Ahdio's red cheeks and Strick was gasping for breath. Three big bellies jiggled with uncontrollable laughter. Ahdio was able to speak first. "I haven't laughed so hard in ages. Did you see the look on his face when he found out he could've bought it for a few soldats?" "Yes, and when he sobers up the silver-haired one is going to catch seventeen hells," Strick added. "Couldn't happen to a nicer fellow," Cholly giggled. "I have a special bottle of wine I've been saving for a special occasion. Share it with me. This calls for a celebration," Ahdio declared. Strick asked Cholly, "If they hadn't agreed, would you have killed them?" "No, but there was no way they could know that. I let them worry once I brought up the possibility. As soon as Markmor put himself in my place he was convinced I would kill them both. It's only human to think other people would act the same way you would in the same situation. Since Markmor would kill me without a second thought, of course he believed I would do it, just more reluctantly. After all, he had already seen me split his pet demon's skull." "So it was all a bluff," Strick marvelled. "What if he called you on it?" "I'd have waited him out. He wasn't going anywhere. Sooner or later he would have to give in. That's lot of beer in those mugs," Cholly chuckled. "Remind me never to gamble with you." Three large bellies began shaking with laughter. Eventually the gluemaker asked, "Is that Staff of Truth for real, or was it a bluff too?" "Does it matter? Markmor believed it was real." "How am I going to clean up this mess?" Ahdio wondered aloud. 'There's several bottles of solvent in my satchel. We can toss the de- mon out the back door and I'll pick him up in the morning. I wonder how good a glue he'll make." THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN Robin Wayne Bailey Tiana struck a brazen pose, turning her back to the small bust of the Rankan goddess Sabellia on its stone pedestal. The full moon shone over- head through a break in the trees, filling the small garden niche with a sublime light that revealed her full, pale breasts as they strained against the too-tight fabric of her green dress; a light bright enough, she also hoped, to lend luster to her deep green eyes so carefully kohled and her lovely red tresses. She rumpled her hair with one hand and thrust her hip a bit further to the side, feeling the perfect vixen. She stretched, lifting her arms until the material of her bodice threatened to rip. She faked a yawn and dared another glance down the white-pebbled pathway that snaked through the Promise. The man still stood there. She knew he'd seen her. What was wrong with him, anyway? Didn't he like women? Maybe he was one of those Stepsons, there were a few left in town; that would be just her luck. She stepped back into the niche out of his sight and bit a fingernail. Perhaps she should have chosen a darker spot tonight. With the moon so full maybe he could see how faded her dress realty was, how the rose in her cheeks was only rouge, how skinny and bone-rough she'd become, despite the size of her juggles. Curse the fates that had brought her to this miserable town, and curse the lying, womanizing stonemason who had lured her here with his promises and sweet words, only to throw her into the streets the moment he found someone prettier. She had no experience at this kind of work. She had to eat, though, and desperation emboldened her. This stranger down the path seemed to 332 UNEASY ALLIANCES be the only man in the park tonight. He'd better have coins, though. Just last evening some wine-soaked fool had offered her a bundle of smelly hides for her service. What was she supposed to do with hides? Tiana stepped onto the path again. The pebbles were smooth and cold under her bare feet. The air felt crisp; she would have to earn enough for shoes and a cloak, and soon. Food, too. She couldn't afford to let this man get away. Feigning an expression of boredom she rubbed her right breast, teasing the nipple. Then, she looked down the path. Damn, damn, damn! He was gone' Into the bushes with some other woman? Her shoulders slumped, and tears welled in the comers of her eyes. She looked down at her toes, pushed a few of the milky stones around. Hadn't he liked her looks? Maybe she'd acted a little too whor- ish. But gods, she was so hungry! How did the other women in the park do it? What was the knack she lacked? A whole week in this sad, silly place, and she had yet to break into the ranks of the professionals! Tiana squeezed her stomach, trying to ease the emptiness as she leaned against Sabellia's pedestal and slowly sank down to sit on the grass at its base. Pressing her back to the fluted stone, she drew her knees close and hugged them. She feared the night. The quiet solitude seemed like a menacing thing. The darkness engulfed her, swallowed her in a black maw, chewed and choked her down all in a preternatural silence. Even the gods whose busts and statues lined the walkways held their tongues in this unfortu- nate park. She looked up into Sabellia's face. The moon itself seemed a weak and helpless emberglow in the vaster dark. Tiana felt small and alone. She wanted to go home, but that, too, took money. She thought again other stonemason lover who had lured her so far from Ranke, He had treated her kindly and promised her heaven. Well, he'd given it to her. That was what the locals called this park where she now tried to ply her charms: the Promise of Heaven. She rested her head back against the pedestal and at last let go the tears she'd held in check for so long. Each one seemed a precious thing to her, a fragment of her heart. She caught one on her finger and held it up to see. It gleamed like a tiny crystalline moon, a very piece of her god- dess. Even through her fear she felt the shadow fall over her. She sniffed once, then quickly wiped the moisture from her face, giving no thought to the rouge and kohl that turned to a smear. She scrambled to her feet as fast as her dress allowed and faked her best smile. It was the same man. Same height and build, same dark garments. The THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 333 moon touched his features. He was young, she thought. Only a little older than herself. Not bad looking, either, despite a peculiar edge, a hardness, in his gaze. She took a deep breath, swelling her favorite assets. Then, suddenly she dropped her pose and brightened. "I know you," she said. "You came down with the workers* caravan—" "I need you," he interrupted throatily. She met his gaze. He had beautiful eyes full of warmth and charm. "Of course," she answered, remembering why she was there, why he was there. Yet, there was more hope in her voice than seduction. She thought briefly of the meal she would buy come morning, and maybe an apart- ment. She hated sleeping in the alleys, constantly afraid. All she had to do was please him, and that shouldn't be hard to do. He had such beautiful eyes' "Come with me," he said softly, holding out a hand. She took it. His touch warmed her; his hand felt soft and uncalloused. That puzzled her. If he was one of the workers sent to rebuild the wall around Sanctuary his hand should have been rough. Yet, it pleased her that it wasn't, and she pushed that concern aside. There was something else she was supposed to think about, something she should say. What was it? "The cost . . ." she hesitated awkwardly, unsure of the usual charge. "I mean. well, a sheboozh?" Oh, damn, she thought. That's far too much for a common street whore. A whole gold coin! But he moved his other hand close to her face. She caught just the flash of the requested payment before he made a fist and the money disap- peared, Tiana couldn't believe her good fortune. Gold and beautiful eyes. The gods were with her this night after all. He really did have the most incredible gaze, full of oceans and full of darkness, full of promises. "Come with me," he said again. His voice was the high wind, and when he spoke no more she still heard his words. He was the sound of the night. She looked into his eyes. Hand in hand, they stepped from Sabellia's garden niche and onto the pathway. Out of respect for the silence that shrouded the park the gravel refused to crunch beneath their tread. Unable to help herself, Tiana smiled. The moonlight continued to shine on the small bust in the Promise of Heaven. Over the rest of Sanctuary, Darkness began to chew. The full moon poured its radiance perfectly through the skylight above Sabellia's altar, lending an opalescent sheen to the graceful sculpture of UNEASY ALLIANCES 334 the goddess. Her flawless marble features shimmered as the smoke of incense swirled upward from a score of braziers set in the floor at the hem other skirts. It rose higher and higher like a wizards-weather mist, caressed her sensuous curves, curled toward the silver disc and out into the night. Dayme looked up, seeking Sabellia's shadowed gaze. He knew she was with him, present in this first full moonlight of autumn as it illumined her altar. He felt her power, felt her touch upon his heart. "Cheyne," he murmured as he knelt. "My Cheyne." He prayed no other words aloud. He didn't need to. Sabellia knew him well. The god- dess had set her mark upon his soul. He reached inside his tunic and extracted a small bundle of white silk. Carefully, he unrolled it. Several strands of fine blond hair gleamed in the moonlight. A silver thread bound them into a delicate lock. How long had he carried them in secret, those hairs stolen from her brush? Three years? Four? He laid his small offering on Sabellia's altar. It was not a gift of great value, but it was very dear to him. The goddess asked no more. Dayrne bowed his head. But suddenly prayers would not come. Where had she gone, his Cheyne? Why hadn't she waited for him to return with the One Hundred? He closed his eyes; it was easy to picture her face when he closed his eyes. In the silent sanctity of the Rankan temple he whispered her name. Chenaya. But in his heart he called her Cheyne, It was one of the names the gladiators had given her in the Rankan arenas. Hard as metal they had said of her. That wasn't true. She was tough, yes, but he had seen the softness buried deep in her soul, the piece of her she kept hidden from the world and from her father. She was a child, sometimes. A spoiled child. Yet he loved her. Cheyne, he thought. My Chain. Chain that binds me beyond reason. He shook his head in a moment that was a mixture of pity and joy. Let me never be free. He looked up at Sabellia's face. She seemed almost to mock him as she peered down through the swirling incense, and he knew that was one prayer the goddess had already answered. But where had Chenaya gone? He thought again of that strange portrait hanging in her room. The power of it was startling, but though he admired the artistry, each time he looked upon it a subtle fear tingled through his spine. Unmistakably, it was Lalo's work. But when had she posed for it? Lowan Vigeles said she had brought it home one night, shut herself in her room until dawn, THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 335 and departed with the morning, saying nothing to anyone. Not even her father knew more. Dayrne suspected, however, that Rashan did. The old priest had made a habit lately of going to Cheyne's room and staring at the portrait with that queer smile of his, peering through half-closed lids at Chenaya's face and the resplendent sun that framed her, seemed to caress her, an effect that went far beyond mere paint and craftsmanship. Her hair flew into fire and light; her eyes shone like tiny suns. Chenaya was beautiful be- yond any woman he had ever known, but not even she was so glorious as Lalo had rendered her. Strange as those things were, though, there was something else that stirred terror into his blood. The painting radiated a tangible warmth. Could it be true what Rashan claimed? Was his Cheyne truly the Daughter of the Sun? Or was it all some trick? He turned his gaze back to Sabellia, who governed matters of the heart. If Cheyne was a goddess or some avatar of Father Savankala, then what hope could there be for any love between them? He touched the few strands of hair he had placed on the altar- They belonged to the goddess now. He bowed his head, uttered one last prayer, and slowly rose to his feet. The Temple of the Rankan Gods was quiet and dark. He shook his head, feeling shame for his people. The construction of the temple had never quite been completed. The outer shrines with altars for Savankala, Sabellia, and Vashanka had been finished, but many of the inner ritual chambers and priests' quarters were still in various stages of completion. There should have been a festival in Sabellia's honor this night of nights. Rashan had elected, instead, to take his priests and hold the ceremonies at the smaller, private temple at Land's End which was not only com- pleted, but sanctified. It didn't seem proper to Dayme, though. That temple was Savankala's hallowed ground. This hour should belong only to Sabellia. Well, he was just a gladiator. What did he know of priestly affairs? He walked through the temple, his sandals ringing softly on the smooth stone floor. Lonely, troubled, he made his way outside, down the high steps, and into the avenue. The street appeared empty. It would be foolish, though, to rely on appearances. Even with the street gangs smashed, there was still danger in the Sanctuary nights. There were too damn many alleys and shadows in this town. Sanctuary. He smirked, considering the name. As if a man was safe from anything at this end of the empire. He wrapped a lightweight cloak about his shoulders and moved sound- lessly down the street. Like the rest of Sanctuary's citizens he, too, knew 336 UNEASY ALLIANCES how to turn invisible, to become a shade or wraith, as he wandered the darkness of Uptown. Cheyne would have mocked and teased him. She would have strode brazenly down the center of the road. Unlike his mistress, though, Dayme had no taste for confrontations. He bit his lip and cursed her silently for leaving him behind. Where the hell are you, Chenaya, he wondered bitterly. Then, thinking of Lalo's painting. Who the hell are you? Worry and confusion gnawed at his insides. Rashan, he thought, fur- rowing his brow. He owed himself a long talk with that sunstruck priest. Daphne worked the training machine with only the moon and a single torch to see by. She leaped and dodged as four spinning wooden arms swung at her head and knees. Sweat gleamed on her body, ran in free rivulets down her throat and chest, down her arms into the hand that held an immense sword. Once, the sword had been too heavy for her. No longer. For a time her mind was utterly free, devoid of thought or concern. The smooth working of muscle, the stretch of tendon, the pulse of her blood, the heat in her flesh—these were the only things that existed for her. She breathed the cool air of night, felt the crunch of sand beneath her sandals, listened to the rhythmic whoosh of the whirling machine. Nothing else mattered for her. But when the arms began to slow she stepped clear and drew a deep, frustrated breath. Then, she leaned on her sword and looked around, strangely aware of the silence and her aloneness. She would not have called it loneliness. A few lamps burned in the windows of the estate. In the opposite direction a few more lights showed distantly where the new barracks had been built at the easternmost wall of Land's End. Beyond the wall the sky glowed redly with the bonfires that Rashan and his priests had made, where they celebrated by Chenaya's temple on the shores of the Red Foal. She was alone as usual, on the outside looking in again. But it didn't bother her. Practice was what mattered, and training and hard work. Dayme would be angry if he knew she was out here so late, but she didn't care. He was only her trainer, nothing more. He'd made that abundantly clear. Her hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of her sword, though, when she thought of him. She didn't care, she didn't care at all. But she raised her weapon sud- denly and carved a great chunk out of one of the machine's arms. The breath hissed from her as she struck. Then, she stood for a moment and THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 337 trembled. It was not Dayrne, she told herself. It had nothing to do with him. It was that damned husband of hers. Kadakithis had summoned her to the palace again. Again, he had begged her for a divorce. Begged! A prince of Ranke! No matter that divorce was forbidden among the Royal Family. Hell, he'd practically crawled on his knees to convince her. What had she ever seen in that man that had made her consent to marriage? It certainly hadn't been his thin, spindly body or his face with a chin that could stitch sailcloth, or that armor-piercing nose. It certainly hadn't been the execrable poetry he once had written, or his mediocre talent on the harp. It sure as the gods hadn't been his fidelity. Why, the bastard had stocked his larder with fresh meat almost before their wedding bed had cooled. And when the Raggah kidnapped and sold her into slavery, did Kadakithis come to rescue her? Hell and damnation, no! He'd curled up, instead, with his pet fish, and left that task to Chenaya. She carved two more chunks from the training-machine, uttering a curse with each stroke. Damn it. Chenaya! (Thunk!) Why didn 't you lake me. (Thunk!) with you, damn it! It didn't matter that Dayme loved Chenaya, it really didn't. She missed the blonde-haired little bitch. With all the new faces around Land's End, all the recruits for Lowan's new school, Daphne wished for someone to talk to. Chenaya was always best for that, though they usu- ally only traded insults and catty comments. Still, there was a commu- nion in that. Chenaya understood her, and as much as anyone could, she thought she understood Chenaya. Everyone else was too much in awe of Lowan's daughter. But not Daphne. Too often they'd looked each other straight in the eye and muttered, "slut," or some such. That made her smile. That business with Zip, though, that hadn't gone down well for Chenaya. She suspected that in the process of ridding Sanctuary of that verminous street gang (laughingly called the Popular Front for the Liber- ation of Sanctuary) Chenaya had lost part of her heart to the cutthroat little back-stabber who called himself its leader. Just like her, Daphne thought, to ignore a real man like Dayrne who cared for her and to fall for a piece of puke. Still, it was a damn good thing Chenaya had left town so soon after the palace ambush. If she knew that Zip had been set free, or that her own husband, that splinter of manhood, had elevated him to a position of authority . . . Hell, even she burned when she thought about that. How, she wondered, could Shupansea allow it? If she'd hated that UNEASY ALLIANCES 338 carp-face before, Daphne had nothing but contempt remaining for the Beysa. Her own people had suffered worst of all at Zip's hands. Daphne remembered the massacre of so many Beysib near the Vulgar Unicorn. Why didn't Shupansea? Wasn't she the real ruler of this city? How could she allow Zip to live when Chenaya had practically poured his blood into a cup for her to drink? Daphne leaned on the machine and stared toward the red haze that flickered against the vast eastern darkness. The noise ofRashan's celebra- tion barely touched her ears. Only days after that incident Chenaya had vanished. Reyk, her falcon, rattled listlessly in his cage. Her father, Lowan, rattled around the halls and corridors of Land's End, himself, like a caged bird, fretting in his own quiet way. Fortunately, he had matters to occupy his mind: the arrival of one hundred of the empire's finest gladiators, the opening of his new school, the construction of suitable barracks on the estate's northeast section, with lumber transported all the way from Bhokar. And there were his plans for the upcoming Festival of Man. All that kept him from worrying too much about his daughter, and it gave him no time at all to visit the palace. But Daphne had been to the palace on three occasions of late. It galled her to listen to Molin Torchholder and Tempus's crag-browed flunky— What was his name, anyway? Shit or Spit or something like that—mut- tering about Chenaya's treachery and Chenaya's scheming and Chenaya's this or that. Not that the two had seen her. Woe to any woman raised in a royal household that never learned to listen at a keyhole or from behind an arras, or that never learned to carry on one conversation while overhear- ing another. Daphne had learned a lot on her three visits, and she swore to leam more when she answered Kadakithis's latest summons. Divorce was all he had on his mind these days. Treachery. That's all Daphne had on hers. There was another traitor that everyone seemed to conveniently overlook, a man who'd befriended Chenaya, pretended to love her- He'd helped her shape the trap that had netted Zip that night, and he'd killed piffles right at her mistress's side. Then, he'd let Zip go, freed the piece of offal that—more than any man in the world—he had reason to hate, cause to kill. It made Daphne mad. She reached out and gave the uppermost arm of the machine a push to set it spinning. Gears began to whir, moving the lower arms in a timed counter-rhythm. Daphne gripped her sword tightly, barely repressing a THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 339 curse. She prepared to leap into her practice again, then stopped. As a perverse afterthought, she extinguished her torch in the sand. She would try it without the light. She didn't need it anymore, she was sure. She was better than her trainer realized, and getting better still. She listened to the gears, to the whoosh of the arms. It was more of a chal- lenge this way, but not much more. The moon was too full. Leap and dodge, leap and dodge. For a time, she abandoned thoughts of treachery and vengeance and found calmness in the smooth mindkssness of motion. But only for a time. Dayrne crept across the Governor's Walk and proceeded up the Ave- nue of Temples. Though a few lights burned in the windows of some of the greater edifices he walked the streets alone. Or, if he was not alone, then whoever else walked abroad moved as silently as he. In Sanctuary, he was willing to concede that possibility. He had planned to go straight home to Land's End. There was so much to do these days with the One Hundred to organize and train. They were good men. He'd personally handpicked every one of them. Their first task upon arriving in Sanctuary had been to construct their own barracks with the lumber Dayrne had purchased in Bhokar. That done, he'd given them one day of rest in honor ofSabellia's celebration. Tomor- row morning would be their first full workouts. He would supervise the session himself. Tonight, however, he wanted a good sleep. Nevertheless, he slowed when he approached the eastern entrance to the Promise of Heaven. Two stone pedestals high as his waist stood on either side of the wide white-pebbled pathway. He hesitated, then moved toward them and frowned. In Sabellia's blessed light he spied a flat black stone upon the left post. Such stones washed up only on the banks of the White Foal on the farther side of town. It was a signal. He palmed the small bit of rock and walked stealthily down the graveled path. He had gone less than ten paces when the smell of a very cheap, but very potent, perfume brought him to a cautious halt. A woman stepped out of the bushes that lined the pathway. She was much too old for her chosen trade; only here in the Promise of Heaven could she hope to make a living with what remained of her physical charms. Men didn't come here for porcelain beauty, but for a few quick grunts in the foliage. Still, she did the best with what she had. Goldenwash made her hair too blond, and rouge made her cheeks far too rosy. More rouge colored her breasts, and kohl darkened her lids in a manner that was almost seductive. UNEASY ALLIANCES 340 Her white dress floated about her as she moved forward. In the pale moonlight it was nearly impossible to discern just how threadbare and worn it really was. There was a certain sad beauty to it and to its wearer. "Evening, Asphodel," Dayme said softly. "That perfume. I smelled you before I saw you." She approached him, grinning, and suddenly she didn't look quite so old. The smile brightened her face, lent it youth. "Sarome's Night," she informed him. "It's in my price range, and it comes by the keg." She ran her fingertips lightly over the jerkin that covered his chest. "If it offends your nostrils, my young friend, then buy me something more expensive." He caught her wrist, held it for a moment, then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. She giggled like a little girl, then pulled away. She touched her own lips to the place where he had kissed, then turned her hand over, opened her palm and exposed the black stone he had pressed upon her. "You wanted to see me," he reminded her gently. Whore or not, Dayrne liked the old woman. He'd liked her since the first time he'd caught her placing flowers against the main gate at Land's End. Lots of the townsfolk had left flowers and small gifts there since Cheyne smashed the PFLS. Especially, Dayme suspected, the prostitutes whose trade that group had nearly ruined by their terrorizing of the streets. Asphodel, however, had brought more than just flowers to show her gratitude. "Walegrin didn't take that bastard. Zip, to prison at all," she'd revealed in her best conspiratorial whisper. "He let him go." It was the first Dayme had heard ofWalegrin's betrayal, but he'd only just returned to Sanctuary that same day with a hundred men and a missing Chenaya to occupy his time. He'd thanked her for the information, but had taken no other action. A few nights later. Asphodel had sought him again outside the gate. "There's a plot brewing in the palace," she'd reported. "Nothing is set, yet, and the Prince isn't involved. But some high people want Rashan dead real quick. They don't like his talk about the Lady Chenaya being a goddess. Lots of folks are ready to believe it." "Why are you telling me this?" Dayme had asked suspiciously. "How does a Promise Park whore come by such palace gossip?" That was the first time he'd seen her smile. She'd leaned back against the gate and struck a pose that might have tempted him had she been twenty years younger. "The ladies who work the park owe much to your Lady," Asphodel had answered. "While Zip and his bloody little boys ran this end of town our customers were afraid to venture out at night. But some of us have THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 341 children and families to feed. Without the coins we earn in the park we couldn't afford food. Zip starved us as surely as if he stole the bread from our mouths." She struck another pose. Dayme realized with a faint grin that she wasn't trying to seduce him at all. Her postures were, instead, matters of long habit, totally unconscious. Long ago, this woman must have been something very special, perhaps madam of her own house. Sadly, times changed for everyone. "There've been other things she's done. too," Asphodel had continued. "Little things. Many a time your Chenaya has cut through the Promise and scattered a few coins on the path. Oh, she always had a haughty air about her, but those coins sometimes made the difference between a good meal or none at all for someone's baby. We're a close-knit club, we women who work the Promise, and we don't forget favors. Even if people don't know they're doing us favors." Dayme wished Chenaya could have heard those words, but she'd left town too soon. "Such information . . ." he'd started to ask. Asphodel smiled again and rumpled her hair absentmindedly. "How does a common street whore come by such news?" She raised one finely penciled eyebrow. "Sir, it would surprise you the kind of men who seek us out. A fine, soft bed is, of course, a good thing." Her smile turned mischievous, "But a tumble in the bushes, in the open air with the stars overhead and the leaves rustling, a body with no discernible face, and the wind in the crack of your ass. That's more than mere sex, Sir. That's an adventure. And men both highborn and low sometimes find their lives turning a bit stodgy. That's when they seek us out." "And they talk?" Dayrne suggested, gleaning her subtleties. Her smile faded only a little, replaced by an expression of wisdom and the barest hint of regret. "Ever meet a man who didn't want the woman he topped to know how important he was?" They'd continued to talk through the night. As the first clouds of morning caught fire in the east they'd parted, her with a full purse in her bodice. She'd tried to refuse it, but Dayrne had insisted. They'd made a pledge to help each other, and it came as no surprise to learn a few nights later that she'd distributed his coins among all the women of the Prom- ise. The leather purse, though, that she'd kept for herself. She wore it on a thong about her ample waist. As he watched, she opened it and deposited the small black stone that was her means of summoning him. That stone was the only clue Dayrne had as to where Asphodel spent her daylight hours, and he guessed she lived close to the White Foal, perhaps in Downwind. 342 UNEASY ALLIANCES "Has Lady Chenaya returned home, yet?" Asphodel asked with genu- ine concern. Dayrne shook his head. "No word from her, either." The old whore bit her lip. The gesture touched Dayrne, drew him even closer to his new, unlikely friend. He glanced up and down the walkway, making sure they were quite alone. Then, he pulled her gently into the bushes. To his surprise, she didn't make the expected suggestive remark. That told him something was wrong. "There's trouble?" he whispered, his hand still upon her arm. She stared at his hand, then away into the dark. "I'm not sure," she said at last. "Maybe I shouldn't bother you with it." He let go a sigh. If she didn't want to bother him, then it didn't concern Chenaya or Land's End. Still, he owed her. She had done enough for him and those he cared for. "Bother me," he answered, another suggestive opening that she let pass. So it was big trouble. Asphodel started to bite her nail, then pulled her finger away from her mouth and folded her hands together. "Some of the ladies have disap- peared," she murmured almost too faintly to be heard. Then, her voice grew stronger. "One a night for over a week. And tonight . . ." she hesitated and started to bite the nail again. Again, she caught herself. "A new girl vanished. Sweet child, but a real novice. Her name was Tiana." "Maybe she went home with a customer," Dayme suggested. Asphodel shook her head. "Not likely. We're kind of a family here. We adopt newcomers like Tiana and try to keep an eye on them." Uncon- sciously, she raised a finger to her lips, inserted it, and bit the nail quite through. She frowned, shook the finger and let go a sigh. "One moment, she was working by the bust of Sabellia. The next, she was gone. Nobody saw her leave. In fact, the park has been nearly deserted all night." She pointed to the sky. "Full moon," she explained. "The brightness keeps the customers away." Dayrne rubbed his chin. "Are you sure they've disappeared? Maybe they've found . . ." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "better work. Or, maybe they're sick." He tried to think of other reasons a prostitute might take a night off. "I told you we're close as family," she repeated. "I went to their homes, myself. Two of the ladies had children. Those little ones were all alone. One was a babe, a half-starved suckling. I had to find places for them all." "Have you taken this matter to the garrison?" She stared him right in the eye. It was a long, uncomfortable moment. THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 343 "We're whores," she said at last. "This is the Promise." She didn't have to say more than that. Raggahs, he thought. Could they be back in the slave trade? He re- membered Daphne's experience at their hands, how those desert bandits had kidnapped and sold her into prostitution on Scavenger's Isle. The Promise of Heaven would be easy pickings if those bastards had decided to resume business. If it was the Raggahs, though, then he had a personal stake in this. Daphne was his pupil. An affront visited upon her was visited upon him as well. "Have any . . ." he searched for a delicate word, then shrugged help- lessly, "bodies turned up?" "No," she answered- "No traces at all. They simply vanished. Easy enough to do in Sanctuary, and if it was just one or two girls I wouldn't question. But one a night for more than a week?" She gazed around as if she could see through the shrubs and bushes into every corner of the park. Then, she raised the hem of her dress to reveal a small dagger thrust through a garter on her right thigh. "My ladie? are scared. I'm scared." "I'll see what I can leam," he promised, unsure of what exactly to do. He pursed his lips, then drew a deep breath. "Anything else?" She also took a breath and let it out slowly. "Just gossip. All those workers who've moved into Shambles' Cross are causing quite a stir. Trouble-making bunch of misfits, all seeking a quick fortune. They like to rough a lady up a bit, you know9 They try it up here, and they'll be sorrier than hell." She patted her weapon through the thin dress. "Doesn't that scare away your customers?" he wondered, amused. "Easy enough to hide it in this darkness," she answered, grinning weakly. "But it's always within reach." They stepped out of the foliage and onto the walkway. Once more, Dayme caught her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. "I'll try to help," he promised again before he turned away. He glanced over his shoulder, but she didn't follow. When he turned a second time she was gone. Asphodel knew the park far better than he did. Sanctuary, he thought. The Promise of Heaven. So many funny names for a town with no sense of humor. Sunlight shimmered around Daphne as she stepped from her silk pa- lanquin at the Processional Gate. She had prepared for this meeting, dressing in her favorite gown of exquisite blue. It split enticingly to her right hip and draped low, just covering her breasts, leaving both arms bare. She had spent much of the morning piling her hair upon her head, 344 UNEASY ALLIANCES pinning it in place with pins of gold and polished oyster shell. Small silver sandals adorned her feet. A perfume of rare citrus floated about her. She was not so stunning as Chenaya, but she was beautiful. And before she granted him any divorce, Kadakithis would acknowledge that. So would Shupansea, the woman who wanted her place at his side. She turned to Leyn and Ouijen who manned the front poles of her transport. "Thank you, brothers," she said formally to the two gladia- tors. They had helped often with her training, and she bore them great respect. It delighted her heart that they had volunteered to bear her today. The two at the rear poles were new men. She didn't know their names, but if Dayme had chosen them they also deserved her respect. She made a short bow. "Thank you for this honor you've done me." "We'll wait here," Leyn said. Then, he put on a grin. "Give 'em a taste of hell." He was a beautiful man, blessed by Savankala with the same golden hair as Chenaya, tall and strong with the classically sculpted body that only a gladiator's training seemed to give. She looked into his richly blue eyes and smiled half-sadly. Why was it not Leyn she loved? "I'll try not to leave you long in this sun," she answered. "And a taste of hell? I'll serve them a gods-damned banquet." She made an ugly face that instantly transformed to an expression of innocence. "Of course, I'm just a sweet, boring little princess of Ranke." But as she said it, she drew a finger across her throat and turned thumbs down with the other hand. They laughed together, startling passersby who moved along the Pro- cessional on their morning business. Then, Daphne passed alone through the gate, crossed Vashanka's Square, and entered the Hall of Justice. The hall was empty. Kadakithis had given up any real pretense of governing the city, himself- He rarely held court at all- She paused at the bottom step of a high dais. At its top rested the throne from which the prince once had delivered his judgments. For a moment her resolve faltered. She sank down on one knee, staring upward, recalling how she had first arrived in this gods-cursed city with her husband. Kadakithis had been so full of ideals then—almost bloated with plans and schemes to improve this filthy city his halfbrother, the emperor Abakithis, had given into his care. She had loved him at that time, even forgiven him for the harem he had brought along from Ranke. And she, too, had shared his ideals and dreams. Most of all, she had rejoiced at the changes that command had seemed to make in him. But none of it had lasted. The ideals were shattered and scattered into dust. Kadakithis had so easily relinquished his command, first to Shupansea and her Beysibs, and then to Molin Torchholder and his cro- THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 345 nies. She grieved for the Kadakithis that had journeyed—an enthusiastic boy-man—to this city. She despised the Kadakithis he had become. It was not his fault, of course. It was the city. Sanctuary corrupted from the inside out. First, it shattered your ideals, then it ground your face against the broken edges, held you down with its foot on your neck until you no longer felt the pain. Until you were just numb. She was proof of that. A once-delicate princess who lived, ate, slept like a gladiator, who cursed like a street whore, who had killed and reveled in the flow of blood. Oh, Sanctuary had worked its brutal magic on her. Daphne rose from the step, passed through the rearmost door meant only for the prince and his entourage, and into the palace proper. She did not see Lu-Broca, the major domo, anywhere, so she grabbed the arm of the first guard that crossed her path. "There are four good men outside the Processional Gate." She saw by the gleam in his eyes that even a mere palace guard knew who she was, and she smiled inwardly- Intimidation came so easily to her these days. "You, personally, will take them the best goblets and the finest vintage wine you can beg, borrow, or steal from the kitchens. Fail me in this—" She patted his shoulder and winked, "Well, don't fail me." She had his dagger from his belt sheath and under his chin before he could draw a breath. "Oops!" she said, passing it back by the point. "You nearly dropped this." She walked serenely down the corridor, leaving him. Neither Rankan guard nor Beysib dared to bar her way. They knew her. Princess Daphne, who once had dared to call their Beysa a whore to her face and laughed about it before all the city's gathered nobility. They hated her, but they accorded her a measure of awe, perhaps because not even their fish- goddess, Mother Bey, had dared to strike her down. Or, perhaps that was only her imagination. Sometimes her mind ran away with her. She couldn't really guess what they thought other, Beysib or Rankan. Nor did she care. It was Chenaya she strove to please, and Dayme and Lowan Vigeles. And herself. Beyond that, she no longer gave a damn about Ranke or the Beysibs or Kadakithis. Her loyalty was to Land's End. Chenaya had rescued her from Scaven- gers' Isle, and Lowan had offered her a home. Dayme and his gladiators had put strength in her arm, courage in her heart, and a sword in her hand. To them she owed loyalty and love. Anyone else was less than the dirt under her sandaled feet. She found Kadakithis in his private quarters. It amused her that he thought such intimate surroundings could sway her decision. Well, let him keep his littie vanities a while longer. A guard stood by his door, 346 UNEASY ALLIANCES opened it for her, and remained at her side until the Prince stepped through a curtained archway. Kadakithis smiled his most reasonable smile. Daphne stifled a sigh. He was still in so many ways the boy she had once loved. He had the same babyish face, the same hair, same thin and spotty beard that probably would never become a man's full mane. He was too scrawny, a mere stick beside Dayrne or Leyn. Yet, she had truly loved him. No more, though. He had killed that love when the Raggah kidnapped her. Kadakithis hadn't even bothered to look for her or to wonder about her fate. And when she did return—thanks to Chenaya—she had found him with another woman. Hardly a woman at all, but a fish-eyed carp. She didn't know if she hated him. But he had hurt her. She wanted to hurt him back. "Daphne!" Kadakithis exclaimed. "You look positively radiant." She folded her arms and waited for him to come to her. "Flatter me some more, Kitty-Kat," she encouraged him coldly. "Maybe it'll make me more pliant, and I'll give you what we both know you want." He reached out to her, and she suffered his touch. His fingers brushed over her bicep. "By the Golden Crown of Savankala," he whispered in his best chiding tone, "if your father knew you were working out with a bunch of gladiators!" He squeezed her muscle. "Why it's bigger than mine!" "Yours was never very big, husband," she answered caustically. "But we both pretended." She changed the subject. "Is Shu-sea hiding behind that curtain?" The Prince paled briefly and looked back over his shoulder to the archway. "Of course not. We're completely alone." He never had been much of a liar, not to her, anyway. "Too bad," she said and paced away from him to the far side of the room. "Because I know she'd like to hear my news. I've decided to give you the divorce you've been begging for." If she hadn't hated him before, that changed instantly. His face bright- ened; the corners of his mouth turned upward in a smile, and he almost clapped his hands together for joy. Then, he caught himself. "It's against Rankan Law," she reminded him. "We're both of Royal Families. But let's admit it, my love, we're so far outside Rankan tradi- tion that it doesn't matter spit or blood what we do. The throne belongs to a usurper now, damn Theron's soul. Your loyalty is to your Beysib allies, and mine is to Chenaya and Land's End. You're no more a Pankan prince than I am a princess. I'm a gladiator now, an auctorata. THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 347 You . . ." she hesitated, then gave him her most withering look. "You're a plaything for Shupansea and a puppet for Molin Torchholder." Kadakithis came toward her, his arms outstretched. "Daphne, I'm sorry. I never expected—" She waved him off, and again crossed to the farthest side of the room away from him. "Spare me any more of your winnings, Kitty-Kat." She knew how he hated that name. "You never expected me to be so reason- able? So generous as to give you the divorce? Or such a bitch?" She threw back her head and laughed, pleased by the effect it had on her weakling mate. "Well, I don't intend to disappoint you, darling." She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, though she tried to smother her anger. "I'm not going to be reasonable or generous. I am going to show you what a bitch I really can be." He stared, apparently at a loss for words. She found him funny as he stood there, mouth agape. He persisted in thinking of her as the sweet, demure child he had taken for his bride, the child who'd loved and obeyed him and had never said a word about his philandering or his spineless scraping before his brother, Abakithis. That Daphne was dead. The Raggah and the filth who lived on Scav- engers* Isle had killed her. "You want your divorce? You want to marry your fish-faced lover?" She laughed again. "You can, my Kitty-Kat." She pointed a trembling finger and released emotions too long held inside her. The bastard! He hadn't even tried to find her! "But there's a price to pay, first." Her lips curled ferally. "There's always a price." "Anything!" Kadakithis stuttered. "Just tell me—" She interrupted him. "Oh, you'll regret that word. But not so fast, former love of my life. This is my last grandstand as your wife, and I want a handpicked audience. Only then will you leam the terms of our divorce." Kadakithis's face turned stony. He glared at her. "Is this another game you're playing?" If she'd had something close at hand she'd have thrown it at him. In fact, she wondered now if he'd had the room cleared just to avoid such an incident. It was remarkably bare of small objects. "Of course, it's a game," she answered, recovering a measure of calm. "You poor boy. Will you ever grow up and open your eyes? It's all a gods-damned game. You'd better learn to play, instead of hiding here behind your nice safe walls. As it is, you're nothing but a pawn for Shupansea and Molin. Be a player, damn you! For once in your innocent, naive life open your eyes and be a man! Until you manage that nothing here will ever truly be yours. Not this city, not Shu-sea, nothing." 348 UNEASY ALLIANCES He trembled visibly. She saw that from across the room, but strangely she found little joy in her triumph. She knew few people had ever dared to talk to him that way, or dared to tell him such a truth. "Your audience," he reminded her. He could barely get out the words; his lips made a thin, taut line, and his eyes were narrowed slits. Daphne drew a slow breath, her anger finally spent. She had not real- ized the depth of the bitterness she'd harbored against her husband. But that was suddenly gone, at least for the moment. There was still the purpose though—the reason she'd decided to grant the divorce. "You," she said softly, "and Shupansea, and Molin." She raised a finger for each name. Lastly she lifted the little finger of her right hand. "But most importantly, our dear garrison commander." The Prince raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Walegrin?" She allowed a small, cruel smile. "His fame precedes him, does it not? My terms will be of special interest to sweet Walegrin." There was no love in the look he gave her, no regret. A shared past, shared dreams and ideals, they meant nothing to him anymore. He wanted only his divorce, and as quickly as possible, she saw that in his gaze. The chill in his voice made even Savankala turn his head away, and the room grew darker as, beyond the window, a cloud passed over the sun. "When and where do we play your game?" he said. There was only one place. "The Hall of Justice," she answered. "To- morrow. You can sweat for a while wondering what I'm planning." Kadakithis folded his arms over his chest. "Then the gods be with us all." She spat on his lovely, marbled floor. "Don't blaspheme," she advised acidly. "The gods have nothing to do with this business." She left him then, passing within a hand's breadth of him on her way to the door. She smelled his essence and the clean crispness of his gar- ments. She felt the warmth of him they passed so closely. But she gave him not another glance. She was numb, she told herself, numb. In a strange kind of serenity she walked through the palace, through the Hall of Justice, and across Vashanka's Square. Her palanquin and her friends waited at the Processional Gate. They hailed her as she joined them. Each man held a fine silver goblet. "We sent the wine back," Leyn informed her, "and requested water, instead. There's still a day's training ahead of us when we get back to Land's End." She didn't have it in her to smile. She parted the curtains of her trans- port and climbed inside. "Take me home, Leyn," she whispered. "Please take me home." She let the drape fall between her and the rest of the world and did her best to smother the sounds of her tears. THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 349 Dayrne fed scraps of freshly killed meat to Chenaya's falcon. Reyk was reluctant to feed, however. The bird took the bits, chewed them briefly, and dropped them to the bottom of his cage. He emitted a long, shrill call, spread his wings to their fullest, then folded them again. He crawled into one comer, finally, and turned away from his feeder. Dayrne gave up. He set the bowl inside the cage where Reyk could reach it if he changed his mind. "He misses Chenaya." Dayrne looked around. He hadn't even heard Daphne approach. A frown creased his lips. Didn't she ever wear anything but her training garb anymore? "You're armed," she noticed. "Going out?" He glanced at the sky. Twilight crept slowly over the heavens. It would be dark soon. Asphodel would be in the Promise like a mother hen protecting her clutch. He remembered the small dagger she wore in her garter and smiled grimly. If the Raggah were involved, she'd need a hell of a lot more than that. "Personal business," he told Daphne. He turned and walked through the aviary, paying no attention to the other falcons in their cages. Birds were Lowan's hobby, not his. Daphne kept pace beside him as he headed for the estate. "Let me help," she offered. Dayme paused. If there were Raggah to hunt, didn't Daphne have the right to join him? He shook his head. Despite all her training and skill, she was a princess of Ranke. He had no right to risk her safety. Besides, he had no proof that the Raggah were his prey. Only a suspicion. "Personal," he repeated. He increased the length of his stride, leaving her behind. She didn't try to keep up, but stopped instead and glared. He could feel the power of her anger at his back. The twelve original gladiators who had accompanied Lowan Vigeles to Sanctuary had all been quartered within the estate. Two were dead; they were only ten now, but his grief was eased by the knowledge that his brothers had died bringing an end to Zip's tyranny. There was honor in that, so their deaths were good- He sought Dismas and Gestus in the rooms they shared. Dismas was curled on the edge of the bed with a book of poems. His lover, Gestus, busied himself with a whetstone and a favored dagger. They looked up when Dayme entered. "I'll be gone most of the night," he said softly. "Perhaps for the next UNEASY ALLIANCES 350 few nights as well. I'd like it if the two of you took charge of the watch tonight. Double the guards on all the other gates, too." Dismas closed his book. "Expecting trouble?" "In this town?" He didn't need to say more. His comrades set aside their diversions and rose to follow him out. "I won't ask your business," Dismas said as they closed the door behind them. "But do you need any help?" "Personal," Dayme answered as he had to Daphne. Among the ten no other explanation was ever necessary. They were all auctorati, free fight- ers, at liberty to come and go as they pleased. He left them, strode through the estate and out to the main gates. Leyn and a dark-haired giant named Dendur, one of the new recruits, stood duty. He exchanged a few words, then passed into the street. The entrance to the Promise was as dark as ever. There was no stone waiting on the pillar for him, though. It didn't matter; he didn't plan to let Asphodel know he was here. He stole into the bushes and glanced at the sky again. One night past full moon, Sabellia still filled the world with her pleasure. Light enough to see by—enough light to be seen. He crouched lower and began to move. The Promise of Heaven was a large park, triangular in shape. Three entrances and three main walkways welcomed visitors, but dozens of smaller trails snaked among the trees and foliage. All along these trails in small, secluded niches stood pillared busts and statues, little shrines to all the various gods and goddesses that had ever been worshipped in Sanctu- ary, each cared for by their various priests. By daytime, the park was the shaded haunt of those priests and their acolytes, of philosophers and their students. It was a school where learned men met to share discourse, where supplicants sometimes came to pray. By night, however, the niches belonged to the prostitutes—and to their supplicants who came to play. Or prey, Dayme reminded himself as he crept from place to place. Here and there, a giggle rose on the breeze. Here and there, the sounds of quick and furtive lovemaking. Dayrne was above embarrassment. He went about his search with a singleness of mind. Sabellia sailed serenely through the night, marking the time. He wasn't sure when he first felt eyes upon his back. He realized only that someone watched him, someone as quiet and subtle as he. He moved to his right, and they moved with him. He circled left, and they followed. Oh, they were good, indeed! Whoever his companion was, he couldn't spot him. But he knew someone was there. THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 351 He headed for the idol of the Ilsigi goddess, Shipri. A large niche, he remembered. There would be plenty of moonlight. If he was clever, he might lure his tag-a-long into that brightness. He fingered the pommel of his sword and pressed on. Then, he cursed. There were voices in the niche. Of course, there would be! Shipri was a goddess of love and motherhood. What better place for a prostitute to set up shop? He parted the bushes for a look. The voices stopped suddenly. At first, he feared he had been seen. But neither the man nor the woman there turned his way. Indeed, their eyes never seemed to move at all. After a moment, the man resumed the conversation, but the woman gave no answer. She didn't speak a word. Neither did her gaze leave her partner's face. An alarm jangled in Dayrne's head. He peered closer at the black- cloaked man, unable to tell much about him save his height. A hood concealed his features, also any weapons he bore. But he was tall, much too tall for a Raggah. And he spoke Rankene. "Come with me," the man said, crooking his finger. The prostitute smiled and fell into step beside her suitor. They left the niche and walked down the pebbled path. Their tread made no sound! Almost, Dayrne leaped from his hiding place, drawing his sword. Sor- cery! If he struck swiftly, the fiend might not have time to react. A clean stroke through the neck—separate the head from the body—that was the best way to kill a wizard. But he stopped himself. That might save this lady, but what of the other missing whores? He owed it to Asphodel to try and find them. He didn't relish the task, and he cursed his own sense of loyalty. Still, he owed. There was no more to be said about it. Of one thing he was sure, though. This villain was no Raggah. Dayrne followed the pair. Apparently, the wizard knew the park well. Shipri's grove was isolated in a little-traveled area of the Promise. The walkways were empty. They wove a careful course toward the high wall at the southeast corner. Dayrne rubbed his chin. He'd expected them to make for one of the entrances. Where could they be going? In the very corner where the two walls joined stood one of the tallest of the park's god-sculptures. Dayrne ducked behind a shrub while the wiz- ard and his catch approached the Father of the Ilsigi pantheon, mighty Us. The wizard left the prostitute in the god's shadow while he went to the jointure of the walls. He put his left hand on a certain brick about shoul- der high in the east face. His right found another brick in the south face UNEASY ALLIANCES 352 at belly level. The two bricks were barely within his reach, and he strained to press them inward. Dayme heard a grinding of stone against stone as the statue of Us moved on its base. The wizard crooked a finger, and the prostitute went to his side. He led her down into a black crack at the idol's feet and the darkness swallowed them. Dayrne bit his lip. She'd gone like a sheep to slaughter, without protest, smiling as if she'd smoked a whole bag of krrff. Again came that grating sound, and the pit suddenly sealed. Dayrne leaped out of his concealment and raced to the wall. Which were the right stones? He strove to remember. He was taller than the wizard, and his arms were longer. He chose a pair and pressed. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. He was sure he had the correct left-hand brick. But which was the right? Suddenly, Us moved. Dayme thanked his own gods, stepped to the edge of the opening and looked down. A set of stone steps descended into utter blackness. He spent only an instant wishing for a lamp or a torch, then took the first step. The air was oppressive and stale. He glanced back upward at the square of moonlight and drew a final fresh breath. He didn't take time to search for the closing mechanism, but drew his sword and began to feel his way forward, brushing one hand along the slime-slicked wall. The tunnel led in only one direction. He'd heard rumors of such tun- nels, but all reports had confined them to the Maze. Apparently the reports were wrong. The darkness made him pause. It was worse than being blind because he knew that he could see. His eyes were wide open, shifting from side to side, straining for some object or bit of light to fasten onto. His heart thundered in his ribs. Still, he pushed on, mindful of the promise he'd made to Asphodel. A web draped over his head. He opened his mouth, a shout rising in his throat. Barely, he choked it back, and he rubbed his sleeve over his face in a frantic haste to free himself from the sticky strands. Now, how in hell had that damn wizard dodged that? He crept on, all too aware of the closeness of the walls, of the weight of the earth over his head. Then—was that a light? He moved a little faster, careful still to make no sound. The tiny spot of light became a flame in the distance, then a sconced lamp with another just beyond it. Dayme hovered at the edge of the darkness and listened. A low voice rode on the stagnant air. Impossible to distirguish the words, but by the rhythms and stresses, Dayme thought it some kind of THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 353 chant. He saw nothing ahead, though, so pressing against the wall, he ventured on into the light. He stopped again. A too-familiar scent wafted through the tunnel. Dayme sniffed. His brows knitted together for an instant, and he clenched the hilt of his sword. A death smell hung in the air, the unmistakable odor of rotting flesh. Too many years in the Rankan arenas as a slave and as an auctoratus had made him familiar with that stench. Gritting his teeth, trying not to breathe too often or too deeply, he followed the scent and the voice. A shriek ripped through the tunnel. The fine hairs on Dayme's neck rose straight up. A woman's voice! Another cry echoed after the first, then a pause, and a long series of screams and broken sobbings. Dayme abandoned stealth and ran forward. The chant had risen to match the intensity of the screams. A mad cacophony of sound swirled around him. He ran wide-eyed and fearful, yet the fear did not stop him. It drew him, instead, until he found the entrance to a side room off the tunnel. He realized at once the tunnel's original purpose. He was surely close to the palace by now, and this was an old escape route used in times of emergency, built by the Ilsigs, perhaps still unknown to the current Rankan occupants. The side room was full of empty weapon racks where fleeing men might once had grabbed swords before emerging above- ground in the Promise. But not all his arena experience had prepared him for the rest of the sight. In the light of a dozen oil lamps Dayme saw the bodies of Asphodel's missing prostitutes. They hung by their necks from metal spikes driven deep into the walls, twisted ropes biting through the bloated flesh of their throats. Plainly, though, they had been killed before they were hanged. The first few women had merely been stabbed through the hearts. The purpled, crusted wounds showed visibly on their bare breasts. The next one had been disemboweled; the flesh of her belly had been peeled back to reveal emptiness; she looked like nothing more than a gutted fish. The mutilations grew progressively more cruel. The skin and muscle had been sliced from one, leaving the organs in full view. Another had been left relatively intact with only dark holes showing where the organs had been removed. On yet another body the visible veins and arteries had been precisely, surgically opened, making a strange and gruesome mapwork. Blood had stained the wall a nauseating color where the corpses hung. Old puddles and rivulets of blood had dried and crusted on the floor beneath them. Dayme reeled at the insanity of it. 354 UNEASY ALLIANCES He fixed his eyes on the center of the room. Bound upon a cross- shaped altar a woman screamed again, her terror filling the chamber and the tunnel beyond. It was the whore he'd followed from Shipri's niche. Whatever entrancement her captor had placed upon her had faded. Her feet and wrists bled as she struggled in her ropes. At her head stood her captor. The wizard's eyes snapped open and fixed suddenly on Dayrne. The chant died in his throat. The gleaming knife he'd brandished over the prostitute turned point first toward the gladiator, and he snatched a second dagger from a table of instruments close at hand. Outrage smothered any thought of fear. Dayrne started across the room, raising his sword. The wizard stepped swiftly to the altar's far side, putting his victim between himself and his unexpected attacker. As he moved he brought the points of his two blades together and barked a short command in a language Dayrne didn't know. A pain stabbed the gladiator's heart. The breath rushed from him, and he clenched his teeth. Still he forced another step forward, fighting the sudden agony. The pain struck him again, and as he took another step, yet again stronger than ever. His knees buckled; the arcane fire in his chest consumed his strength. A red tide flooded his vision. His fingers trembled with seizure on the hilt of his sword. He forced his head up, expecting a death stroke from one of the dag- gers. The wizard had felled him easily; Dayrne was helpless at that mo- ment. Yet, his foe kept his place behind the altar and his victim. Then, Dayrne saw fear, not triumph, on his foe's face. Fighting the pain, he crawled back toward the entrance. With each retreating step the pressure on his heart lessened. He leaned on the jamb and slowly pulled himself to his feet, gasping for one good breath. The wizard lowered his blades. A fine sweat sheened on his brow, and the glow of the oil lamps lent him a strange countenance. Still, the fear was unmistakable; Dayrne saw it in those dark. deep-set eyes. The prostitute cried piteously. "Help me'" she begged Dayrne. "Don't let him kill me, I'm with child!" Dayrne stayed by the door. He needed a moment to recover his strength and to think. For all the wizard's apparent power, he feared Dayrne. Why? "Don't just stand there like a worthless eunuch!" the whore shouted when her rescuer didn't move. "He's going to—" The wizard frowned and touched her temple with one finger. Her head sagged back before she could say another word. Her eyes fluttered shut. She sighed, then went limp. THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 355 But almost instantly, her lids snapped open again. She screamed and cowered away from the wizard's hand as far as her bonds allowed. The wizard roared in frustration, grasped both his blades in his right hand, and seized the woman's hair in his left- He jerked her head up then sharply down on the altar. She let go a short gasp as her eyes rolled and closed. A fine trickle of blood oozed down the cross under her head and dripped to the floor. "I get so tired of the noise," the wizard said in exasperation. Dayrne leaped across the threshold, but his foe was just as fast. Again the points of the blades touched, and again he shouted in that strange tongue. Dayrne screamed as fire exploded in his chest and a rush of tears half- blinded him. But he kept his feet and flung himself at the altar. Wide- eyed, the wizard sprang back against the wall, clutching the daggers in shivering hands. "Whatever god has siphoned my power, I've still more than enough for you," the wizard hissed. But his voice quavered. Dayme sprawled over the altar and over the woman's limp form, his fingers clutching her thighs for support. He sucked for air to relieve his tortured lungs and tried to fight the weakness that numbed his limbs. He lunged with the point of his sword, but his strength faded too swiftly, and his foe retreated beyond his reach. The wizard flattened against the wall, and his fear was a tangible force. Then, fear turned to anger as he realized Dayrne's impotence. "All the way from Carronne I came to this miserable dung-hole!" He was still careful to keep his blades touching and pointed at the gladiator. "The tales had reached even that far of the strange affairs transpiring here, stories of gods and demons and dead souls that walked the streets. Clearly, there was power here for the taking, and who deserved it more than I? So I came disguised as one of the laborers who build your walls." Dayrne hissed through his teeth, barely able to form words. "Human sacrifice? Never in our empire—not even in this rotten town!" He tried to glance over his shoulder, wondering if he could make it back to the safety of the entrance where the wizard's spell didn't reach. But he knew that was useless. It was a struggle even to raise up on one elbow and look his foe in the eye. "The sacrifices are to placate whatever god has stolen my magic!" The wizard dared to come closer. "In Carronne I was a hazard-class magician —curse the fate that brought me here! My simplest spells go completely awry. All those stories of power—there must be some secret!" "No secret," Dayme managed. "Go back to Carronne." He dragged one foot, then the other, under himself and tried to stand. It was useless. 356 UNEASY ALLIANCES His heart hammered against his ribs; the room spun crazily. The wizard's face swam out of focus. "Tasfalen's,"—he fought to get the words out— "magic burned out!" But the wizard didn't hear or didn't understand. "I'll find the god who has cursed me and broken my skill and offer blood to appease him, until I'm strong again—strong enough to break your secret and seize the magic that pervades this city!" Another voice called suddenly from the entrance. "It's always good to have dreams." Dayrne recognized it immediately and turned to shout a warning. All he managed to do was fall. Daphne didn't spare him a glance. "Have a long one in your death sleep." Her dagger flashed across the space. The wizard cried out and bounced against the wall, clutching his shoulder. When he straightened. Daphne's blade protruded near his col- lar bone. A wet stain blossomed rapidly on his dark garment. Still, he managed to lift his own daggers and slam the points together and breathe his Word of Power. Dayme thought his heart would burst. From the comer of his eye he saw Daphne double over as she stepped across the threshold with drawn sword. The weapon tumbled from her grip- But then, impossibly, she began to laugh. She straightened, threw back her head and let the mirth flow from her lips. She looked around for her sword, but as she bent to retrieve it she tripped on her own foot and fell, only to clamber up again laughing. Dayrne felt it, too- The hand that squeezed his heart began, instead, to tickle it. His pain turned slowly into renewed energy. Strength flooded his limbs. He chuckled. Then, uncontrollably, he laughed. He looked at the bodies suspended on the walls, at the prostitute bound to the cross, at the astonished expression on the wizard's face. It was all so funny! The wizard smashed his daggers together, cursing, and stamped his foot. With a bellow he struck them once more. The blades shattered under the impact, and the pieces fell at his feet. His face paled, and his mouth gaped. Then, gathering his robes about him, he raced from the room and into the tunnel. Daphne shot out a foot as if to trip him, but he was already gone. She rolled kittenlike onto her back, clutched her stomach and howled. Moments passed before the twisted spell dissolved. Dayme got to his feet, wiping spittle from his chin. He sheathed his sword and turned to help the princess. But Daphne rose on her own. "If you breathe a word of this," she threatened, red-faced, "I'll wear your mouth for a garter." THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 357 "Just see to that one," he snapped, pointing to the prostitute on the altar. "Later we'll talk about your following me. I told you this was personal business." She put a hand on his chest before he could pass her. "You're my business," she answered stubbornly, her gaze hard and glittering. "Good trainers are rare." He regarded her for an instant, then remembered the wizard. "We'll talk," he said, and he ran into the tunnel. The echo of fleeing footsteps sounded from the direction of the Prom- ise. Dayrne sped after, drawing his blade once again. He quickly passed the final lamp and plunged ahead. The darkness, though, forced him to slow. He put a hand to the wall and hurried as rapidly as he dared, cursing under his breath. The wizard's footsteps faded. Had he reached the tunnel's end at the shrine of Us? If he had emerged, Dayme knew he might never find him. His answer came as he spied the shaft of moonlight that lanced the blackness. But strange sounds wafted through the opening, swelling as he approached—shouts and curses, high, frantic voices: Dayrne raced toward the moonlight. It had to be the prostitutes! He took the steps two at a time and ascended into open air. The women of the Promise surrounded the wizard in a wide ring. He spun in confusion, weakling brandishing Daphne's dagger. It gleamed wetly with his blood. The whores, too, waved daggers, the small weapons they wore in their garters. Still, they didn't know their foe's power! Dayme tried to warn them. "Asphodel!" At his shout, the wizard whirled. Their eyes met for an instant. Hatred and anger burned in that furious gaze, and Dayme felt a force reach out for him. The prostitutes saw their chance. They fell on the wizard, hacking and stabbing with their tiny blades. Arms rose and plunged with frantic out- rage and swiftly blackened with the blood of their stalker. Dayme could only stare as the wizard sank under the onslaught. The women did not stop. They stabbed and stabbed, giving release to all the rage and terror they had lived with the past nights. Then, Asphodel stepped back gasping and wide-eyed, her white dress a stained ruin. Dayme went slowly to her side. "Who was he?" she asked, barely able to speak as she trembled. She might have been a spectre that haunted the park the way she looked. Dayme wiped a smear of blood from her cheek and patted back the hair that had fallen around her face. "He came from Carronne," he finally answered. "I never learned his name." Asphodel sighed and looked over her shoulder. The whores stood 358 UNEASY ALLIANCES away from their grisly work. Pieces of the corpse lay hacked and scat- tered around their feet. The women stared from one to the other with expressions that betrayed confusion in some, fury and vindication in oth- ers. One by one they drifted back into the bushes. From somewhere in the foliage came the sound of weeping. "I guess it doesn't matter," Asphodel said. "One of my ladies found this opening, and we waited to see who came out. I knew it had some- thing to do with my missing ones." She sighed again and peered into the tunnel's gloom. "They're dead, aren't they, Tiana and all the rest?" He nodded quietly. "All but the one he took tonight. She's still alive, though somewhat battered." Daphne chose that moment to emerge from the opening with the pros- titute slung over her shoulder. She dumped her burden unceremoniously in the grass. Dayrne frowned and knelt beside the woman. "He didn't hit her that hard. She should have come around by now," Daphne spat. "She did. Then, she took a good look at—" the one-time princess, hesitated, looked at Asphodel, and spoke more softly. "She saw her friends and realized how close she'd come to joining them." Daphne shrugged and cocked her head to one side. "She fainted." Asphodel glanced from Dayme to Daphne and back again. She real- ized who the princess had meant, and that the younger woman had tried to spare her some horror. Her old eyes misted over, but she blinked back any tears- "Some of my brothers will bring them up in the morning," Dayme said gently. "There's no need for you to see them the way they are." "They're family," Asphodel answered. She held up her dagger. With a look of disgust she flung it aside and wiped her hand on her dress. "I'll be here to help." Dayme started to protest, but Daphne touched his sleeve. "It's her decision," she told him. "You know, personal business." Then, with her usual tact, she pointed to the wizard's remains. "Besides, they don't look any worse than that." Asphodel walked to the corpse and stared at it for a long moment. Daphne went with her, bent down and retrieved her dagger from the ground near the wizard's hand. "It's Chenaya's," she informed Dayme. "She'd be pissed if Host it." Then, she turned away and vanished into the park. Alone, the old whore turned to Dayrne and touched his arm. "Thank you," she said. "For what?" he answered with a shake of his head. "I didn't do any- thing." THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 359 It was almost true. With all the blood spilled this night, his was the only clean blade in the park. Daphne scandalized the palace by arriving, not in a gown, but in an outfit borrowed from Chenaya's closets. She looked as beautiful and deadly, all in soft black leather, gleaming with buckles and ringlets and weapons. Her night-black hair flowed over her shoulders. Pride stiffened her spine; she lifted her chin high as she strode into the Hall of Justice. Two seats had been placed upon the dais. Kadakithis and Shupansea sat there side by side, looking down upon her. Molin Torchholder stood beside the Beysa, Walegrin by his prince. It was the audience she'd re- quested and no one else. Her husband simply had no sense of theatrics. But then, he had no sense, period. She looked up and met his stare as she stopped at the lowest step. His jaw gaped in astonishment. It was the acknowledgment she had sworn to get from him—and it tasted sweet indeed. "Second thoughts, my husband?" She rested one hand on her hip, taunting him. His hands fluttered. "You look—" he bit his lip and cast a sidewise glance at Shu-sea. The sentence hung unfinished. The Beysa at that in- stant looked less like a carp, more like a shark protecting her catch. Daphne had expected to gloat, to draw out the moment of her tri- umph, but she found now she had little stomach for that. Better, she decided, to end this quickly, break her ties with this pathetic little man, and get on with her new life. "You want a divorce, Kitty-Kat?'' She looked at each of the four on the dais and grinned. It's all a game, Chenaya had once told her, every- thing is a game. Daphne realized the truth of that. These were the master gamers of Sanctuary she faced. "These are my terms." "List them, Princess, and we'll consider." Daphne shot Molin a withering look. "Shut up, Torch. This is between Kadakithis and me. You're merely here to witness, and I extend you that courtesy only because I know you're even more eager for these two to wed than they are. I half expect you'll share the marriage bed." Molin maintained an outward calm, but Daphne knew him better than that. She turned back to her husband. "First, I want the estate immediately south and adjacent to Land's End. It's abandoned right now, but the way people are flocking to this pisshole these days it's not likely to be so for long." She paused, and her brows narrowed, "I require agreement. None of this is negotiable." Kadakithis rubbed his thinly bearded chin and glanced at Molin. The UNEASY ALLIANCES 360 Torch gave a not-very-subtle nod, and Daphne smiled to herself. Puppet and puppet-master. "We'll draw up a deed," the prince answered. "Second term," she continued. "One half of your personal fortune." Kadakithis rose from his seat. His eyebrows shot upward, and he gripped the arms of his chair to steady himself. "What!" Daphne clucked her tongue. "Won't it be worth it to get rid of me? Besides, think of all that gold on the Beysib ships. I'm sure your bride will offer a dowry worthy of a man like you." The prince sank back into his seat. At last, he waved a hand. "All right, damn you! Yes, I'll even agree to that. As you say," he added caustically, "it'll be worth it to be free of you." He glowered down from his high position. "You're not at all the sweet wife you used to be," The accusation caught her completely off guard, and she barked a short laugh. To her utter surprise she found within herself a sudden sympathy for Shupansea. "Third term," she said, regaining control of herself. 'T retain all my titles and any property in Ranke that Theron hasn't seized along with the throne." "Done," Kitty-Kat agreed disinterestedly. "What else?" She rested a hand on the pommel of her sword and let go a small, inaudible sigh. "There was one more term, originally," she said. She faced Walegrin and waited until he shifted uncomfortably. "I wanted the first knuckle of the little finger of your right hand to wear on a chain about my neck," she told the garrison commander. She watched all their faces as she said it, and she wasn't disappointed by their reactions. "Look at them," she said, addressing him directly. "They'd have given it to me, too." Molin stepped to the very edge of the platform, but Kadakithis caught his sleeve and pulled him back. "You're insane!" her husband shouted. "That's right!" she shot back. "You made me insane when you aban- doned me to the gentle mercies of Scavengers' Isle!" Only Shupansea kept a measure other composure. She leaned forward, regarding Daphne with sudden interest. "Why our commander?" Daphne faced Walegrin again. "You betrayed the Lady Chenaya," she charged, "and let Zip go free after she handed the little bastard over to you. Now, the common people of the city shower her name with praise and beflower her gate while Molin and the powerbrokers of Sanctuary rant and rave about her so-called treachery. Yet, no one speaks of your treachery, Walegrin. You made love to her, then you betrayed her. You helped shape her plan, and you killed piffles right beside the rest of us." She stabbed a finger at the Torch and Kitty-Kat. "Then, on their orders, THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN 361 you freed the man who murdered your little niece and gutted your own sister with an ax." She gave him a cold look, finding small reward when he turned away from her gaze. "You've thrown away your honor, Com- mander. Molin and his cronies may praise you for your obedience and sense of duty. But the common men and women of this town know you now. Look in their eyes the next time you walk the streets. You'll find reflected there nothing but scorn." She turned to Molin who seemed ready to swoop down on her like the carrion bird he so resembled. "Keep your toy soldier, Torchie. But keep him away from me. He pollutes the air." "I am curious," Shupansea spoke, leaning forward. "If you wanted our commander's finger, why did you change your mind?" Daphne allowed a wan smile. "It's nothing any of you will ever grasp," she answered. "But I found true honor in this city last night among some whores in a dirty park, where a group of women struggle every moment of their lives to eke out an existence you and I would die to avoid. For all their misery they take care of each other like a kind of family." She hesitated. "I've found a similar kind of honor at Land's End, but you wouldn't understand that, either. Walegrin can keep* his finger." She cocked her head to one side, recalling her night in the tunnel and an odor that still lingered unpleasantly in her memory. "It would have made a smelly bauble, anyway." She gave her back to the masterplayers, then, winning her best victory by walking away from the game. Just beyond the Processional Gate she found Dayme waiting. He'd washed and changed since the morning's training session, and his essence was sweeter than the day, itself. "I thought I'd walk you back," he said. She grinned up at him. He really was the hugest man she'd ever seen, yet she found in him the most unexpected gentleness. Chenaya was a fool not to love him. Daphne shielded her eyes from the sun as she gazed at his face. The brightness lent a halo to his features. "How about I buy you a mug, instead," she offered. "You pick the tavern. Make it someplace raunchy." He frowned. But then, he clapped an arm around her shoulders, and his lips curled upward into the barest smile-t