D:\e-books\Thieves World 02 - Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn.pdb

PDB Name: THIEVES WORLD 2
Creator ID: REAd
PDB Type: TEXt
Version: 0
Unique ID Seed: 0
Creation Date: 8/16/1973
Modification Date: 8/16/1973
Last Backup Date: 1/1/1970
Modification Number: 0


THIEVES WORLD #2
TALES FROM THE VULGAR UNICORN

Edited by Robert Lynn Asprin



CONTENTS

EIDTOR'S NOTE

INTRODUCTION

SPIDERS OF THE PURPLE MAGE		Philip Jose Farmer
GODDESS					David Drake
THE FRUIT OF ENLIBAR			Lynn Abbey
THE DREAM OF THE SORCERESS		A.E.vanVogt
VASHANKA'S MINION			Janet Morris
SHADOW'S PAWN				Andrew J. Offutt
TO GUARD THE GUARDIANS			Robert Lynn Asprin

ESSAY: THE LIGHTER SIDE OF SANCTUARY



EDITOR'S NOTE

The  perceptive  reader  may  notice  small  inconsistencies  in  the characters
appearing in  these stories.  Their speech  patterns, their  accounts of certain
events, and their  observations on the  town's pecking order  vary from time  to
time.

These are not inconsistencies!

The reader  should consider  the contradictions  again, bearing  three things in
mind.

First, each story is told from  a different viewpoint, and different people  see
and hear  things differently.  Even readily  observable facts  are influenced by
individual perceptions and opinions.  Thus, a minstrel narrating  a conversation
with a magician would give a different account than would a thief witnessing the
same exchange.

Second, the citizens of Sanctuary are by necessity more than a little  paranoid.
They tend to either omit or slightly alter information in conversation. This  is
done more reflexively than out of premeditation, as it is essential for survival
in this community.

Finally, Sanctuary  is a  fiercely competitive  environment. One  does not  gain
employment  by  admitting  to  being 'the  second-best  swordsman  in  town'. In
addition to  exaggerating one's  own status,  it is  commonplace to downgrade or
ignore one's closest  competitors. As a  result, the pecking  order of Sanctuary
will vary depending on who you talk to ... or more importantly, who you believe.



INTRODUCTION

Moving his head with minute care to avoid notice, Hakiem the Storyteller studied
the room  over the  untouched rim  of his  wine cup.  This was,  of course, done
through slitted eyes. It  would not do to  have anyone suspect he  was not truly
asleep. What he saw only confirmed his growing feelings of disgust.

The Vulgar Unicorn  was definitely going  downhill. A drunk  was snoring on  the
floor against the wall, passed out in  a puddle of his own vomit, while  several
beggars  made  their  way  from  table  to  table,  interrupting  the undertoned
negotiations and hagglings of the tavern's normal clientele.

Though his  features never  moved, Hakiem  grimaced inside.  Such goings on were
never tolerated  when One-Thumb  was around.  The bartender/owner  of the Vulgar
Unicorn had always been quick to  evict such riffraff as fast as  they appeared.
While the tavern  had always been  shunned by the  more law-abiding citizens  of
Sanctuary, one of the  main reasons it was  favoured by the rougher  element was
that  here  a  man could  partake  of  a drink  or  perhaps  a little  larcenous
conversation uninterrupted. This tradition was rapidly coming to an end.

The fact that  he would not  be allowed to  linger for hours  over a cup  of the
tavern's cheapest wine  if One-Thumb were  here never entered  Hakiem's mind. He
had  a skill.  He was  a storyteller,  a tale-spinner,  a weaver  of dreams  and
nightmares. As such, he considered himself on a measurably better plane than the
derelicts who had taken to frequenting the place.

One-Thumb had been missing for a long time now, longer than any of his  previous
mysterious  disappearances. Fear  of his  return kept  the tavern  open and  the
employees honest, but the place was degenerating in his absence. The only way it
could sink any lower would be if a Hell Hound took to drinking here.

Despite his guise of  slumber, Hakiem found himself  smiling at that thought.  A
Hell Hound in the  Vulgar Unicorn! Unlikely at  best. Sanctuary still chafed  at
the occupying force from the Rankan Empire, and the five Hell Hounds were  hated
second only  to the  military governor.  Prince Kadakithis,  whom they  guarded.
Though it was a close choice  between Prince Kitty-Cat with his naive  lawmaking
and  the  elite soldiers  who  enforced his  words,  the citizens  of  Sanctuary
generally felt the military governor's quest  to clean up the worse hellhole  in
the Empire was stupid, while  the Hell Hounds were simply  devilishly efficient.
In a town  where one was  forced to live  by wit as  often as skill,  efficiency
could be grudgingly admired, while stupidity, particularly stupidity with power,
could only be despised.

No, the  Hell Hounds  weren't stupid.  Tough, excellent  swordsmen and  seasoned
veterans,  they  seldom set  foot  in the  Maze,  and never  entered  the Vulgar
Unicorn. On the west side of town, it was said that one only came here if he was
seeking death ... or selling  it. While the statement was  somewhat exaggerated,
it was true that most of the  people who frequented the Maze either had  nothing
to lose or were  willing to risk everything  for what they might  gain there. As
rational men,  the Hell  Hounds were  unlikely to  put in  an appearance  at the
Maze's most notorious tavern.

Still, the  point remained  that the  Vulgar Unicorn  sorely needed  One-Thumb's
presence and that his return was long overdue. In part, that was why Hakiem  was
spending so much time here of  late: hope of acquiring the story  of One-Thumb's
return and possibly the story of his absence. That alone Would be enough to keep
the storyteller haunting the tavern, but  the stories he gained during his  wait
were a prize in themselves. Hakiem  was a compulsive collector of stories,  from
habit as well as by profession, and many stories had their beginnings,  middles,
or ends within these walls. He collected  them all, though he knew that most  of
them could not be repeated,  for he knew the value  of a story is in  its merit,
not in its saleability.



SPIDERS OF THE PURPLE MAGE
by Philip Jose Farmer

1

This was the week of the great rat hunt in Sanctuary.

The next week, all the cats that could be caught were killed and degutted.

The third week, all dogs were run down and disembowelled.

Masha zil-Ineel was one of the very few people in the city who didn't take  part
in the rat hunt. She just couldn't believe that any rat, no matter how big,  and
there were some huge ones in Sanctuary, could swallow a jewel so large.

But when a rumour spread that someone had seen a cat eat a dead rat and that the
cat had  acted strangely  afterwards, she  thought it  wise to  pretend to chase
cats. If she hadn't, people might wonder why not. They might think that she knew
something they didn't. And then she might be the one run down.

Unlike the animals, however,  she'd be tortured until  she told where the  jewel
was.

She didn't know where it was. She wasn't even sure that there was an emerald.

But everybody knew  that she'd been  told about the  jewel by Benna  nus-Katarz.
Thanks to Masha's blabbermouth drunken husband, Eevroen.

Three weeks ago, on a dark night, Masha had returned late from midwifing in  the
rich merchants' Eastern quarter. It was well past midnight, but she wasn't  sure
of the  hour because  of the  cloud-covered sky.  The second  wife of Shoozh the
spice-importer had borne her fourth  infant. Masha had attended to  the delivery
personally while Doctor Nadeesh  had sat in  the next room,  the door only  half
closed, and listened to her reports. Nadeesh was forbidden to see any part of  a
female client except for those normally exposed and especially forbidden to  see
the breasts  and genitals.  If there  was any  trouble with  the birthing, Masha
would inform him, and he would give her instructions.

This angered Masha, since the doctors collected half of the fee, yet were seldom
of any use. In fact, they were usually a hindrance.

Still, half a fee was better than none. What if the wives and concubines of  the
wealthy were as nonchalant and hardy  as the poor women, who just  squatted down
wherever they happened to be when  the pangs started and gave birth  unassisted?
Masha could not have supported  herself, her two daughters, her  invalid mother,
or her lazy alcoholic husband. The  money she made from doing the  more affluent
women's hair and from  her tooth-pulling and manufacture  of false teeth in  the
marketplace wasn't enough. But midwifery added the income that kept her and  her
family just outside hunger's door.

She  would have  liked to  pick up  more money  by cutting  men's hair  in the
marketplace, but both law and ancient custom forbade that.

Shortly after she had burned the  umbilical cord of the new-born to  ensure that
demons  didn't steal  it and  had ritualistically  washed her  hands, she  left
Shoozh's  house. His  guards, knowing  her, let  her through  the gate  without
challenge, and the guards of the  gate to the eastern quarters also  allowed her
to pass. Not however without offers from a few to share their beds with her that
night.

'I can do much better than that sot of a husband of yours!' one said.

Masha was glad that her hood and the daricness prevented the guards from  seeing
her burning face by  the torchlight. However, if  they could have seen  that she
was blushing with shame, they might have been embarrassed. They would know  then
that they weren't dealing with  a brazen slut of the  Maze but with a woman  who
had known better days  and a higher position  in society than she  now held. The
blush alone would have told them that.

What they didn't know and what she  couldn't forget was that she had once  lived
in  this walled  area and  her father  had been  an affluent,  if not  wealthy,
merchant.

She passed on silently. It would have  made her feel good to have told  them her
past and then ripped them with the  invective she'd learned in the Maze. But  to
do that would lower her estimate • of herself.

Though she had her  own torch and the  means for lighting it  in the cylindrical
leather case on her back, she did not use them. It was better to walk unlit  and
hence unseen into the streets. Though  many of the lurkers in the  shadows would
let her pass unmolested, since they had  known her when she was a child,  others
would not be  so kind. They  would rob her  for the tools  of her trade  and the
clothes she wore and some would rape her. Or try to.

Through  the  darkness  she  went  swiftly,  her  steps  sure  because  of  long
experience. The adobe buildings of the city were a dim whitish bulk ahead.  Then
the path took a turn, and she  saw some small flickers of light here  and there.
Torches. A little further, and a light became a square. The window of a tavern.

She  entered a  narrow winding  street and  strode down  its centre.  Turning a
corner, she saw a torch in a bracket on the wall of a house and two men standing
near it. Immediately she crossed to the far side and, hugging the walls,  passed
the two. Their pipes glowed redly; she caught a whiff of the pungent and  sickly
smoke of kleelel, the drug used by the poor when they didn't have money for  the
more expensive krrf. Which was most of the time.

After two or three pipefuls, the smokers would be vomiting. But they would claim
that the euphoria would make the upchucking worth it.

There were other odours: garbage piled by the walls, slop-jars of excrement, and
puke from kleetel smokers and drunks. The  garbage would be shovelled into goat
drawn carts by Downwinders  whose families had  long held this  right. The slop
jars would be emptied by a Downwinder family that had delivered the contents  to
farmers for a century and would and had fought fiercely to keep this right.  The
farmers would use the excrement to  feed their soil; the urine would  be emptied
into the mouth of the White Foal River and carried out to sea.

She also heard the  rustling and squealing of  rats as they searched  for edible
portions and dogs growling  or snarling as they  chased the rats or  fought each
other. And she glimpsed the swift shadows of running cats.

Like a cat, she sped down the street in a half-run, stopping at corners to  look
around them before venturing  farther. When she was  about a half-mile from  her
place, she heard the pounding of feet ahead. She froze and tried to make herself
look like part of the wall.


2

At that moment the moon broke through the clouds.

It was almost a full moon. The light revealed her to any but a blind person. She
darted across the street to the dark side and played wall again.

The slap of feet  on the hard-packed dirt  of the street came  closer. Somewhere
above her, a baby began crying.

She pulled  a long  knife from  a scabbard  under her  cloak and  held the blade
behind her. Doubtless,  the one running  was a thief  or else someone  trying to
outrun a thief  or mugger or  muggers or perhaps  a throat-slitter. If  it was a
thief who was getting away from the  site of the crime, she would be  safe. He'd
be in no position  to stop to see  what he could get  from her. If he  was being
pursued, the pursuers might shift their attention to her.

If they saw her.

Suddenly, the pound of feet became  louder. Around the corner came a  tall youth
dressed in a  ragged tunic and  breeches and shod  with buskins. He  stopped and
clutched the corner and looked behind  him. His breath rasped like a  rusty gate
swung back and forth by gusts of wind.

Somebody was after him.  Should she wait here?  He hadn't seen her,  and perhaps
whoever  was chasing  him would  be so  intent he  or they  wouldn't detect  her
either.

The youth turned  h'is face, and  she gasped. His  face was so  swollen that she
almost didn't recognize him. But he was Benna nus-Katarz, who had come here from
Ilsig two years  ago. No one  knew why he'd  immigrated, and no  one, in keeping
with the unwritten code of Sanctuary, had asked him why.

Even in the  moonlight and across  the street, she  could see the  swellings and
dark spots, looking  like bruises, on  his face. And  on his hands.  The fingers
were rotting bananas.

He turned back to peer around  the corner. His breathing became less  heavy. Now
she could hear the faint slap of feet down the street. His chasers would be here
soon.

Benna gave a soft ululation of  despair. He staggered down the street  towards a
mound of garbage  and stopped before  it. A rat  scuttled out but  stopped a few
feet from him and chittered at him. Bold beasts, the rats of Sanctuary.

Now Masha could hear the loudness of approaching runners and words that  sounded
like sheets being ripped apart.

Benna moaned. He reached under his tunic with clumsy fingers and drew  something
out. Masha couldn't see  what it was, though  she strained. She inched  with her
back  to the  wall towards  a doorway.  Its darkness  would make  her even  more
undetectible.

Benna looked at the thing in his hand. He said something which sounded to  Masha
like a curse. She couldn't be sure; he spoke in the Ilsig dialect.

The baby above had  ceased crying; its mother  must have given it  the nipple or
perhaps she'd made it drink water tinctured with a drug.

Now Benna was pulling something else from inside his tunic. Whatever it was,  he
moulded it around the other thing, and now he had cast it in front of the rat.

The big grey beast ran away as the object arced towards him. A moment later,  it
approached the little  ball, sniffing. Then  it darted forwards,  still smelling
it, touched it  with its nose,  perhaps tasted it,  and was gone  with it in its
mouth.

Masha watched  it squeeze  into a  crack in  the old  adobe building at the next
corner. No  one lived  there. It  had been  crumbling, falling  down for  years,
unrepaired and avoided even by the most desperate of transients and bums. It was
said that the ghost of old  Lahboo the Tight-Fisted haunted the place  since his
murder,  and no  one cared  to test  the truth  of the  stories told  about the
building.

Benna, still breathing somewhat heavily,  trotted after the rat. Masha,  hearing
that the footsteps were louder, went  alongside the wall, still in the  shadows.
She was  curious about  what Benna  had got  rid of,  but she  didn't want to be
associated with him in any way when his hunters caught up with him.

At the corner, the youth stopped and  looked around him. He didn't seem able  to
make up his mind which  route to take. He stood,  swaying, and then fell to  his
knees. He groaned,  and pitched forwards,  softening his fall  with outstretched
arms.

Masha meant to leave him to his fate. It was the only sensible thing to do.  But
as she rounded the corner, she heard him moaning. And then she thought she heard
him say something about a jewel.

She stopped. Was that what he had put in something, perhaps a bit of cheese, and
thrown to the rat? It would be  worth more money than she'd earn in  a lifetime,
and if she could, somehow, get her hands on it ... Her thoughts raced as swiftly
as her heart, and now she was breathing heavily. A jewel! A jewel? It would mean
release from this terrible place, a  good home for her mother and  her children.
And for herself.

And it might mean release from Eevroen.

But there was also a terrible danger very close. She couldn't hear the sounds of
the pursuers now, but that didn't mean they'd left the neighbourhood. They  were
prowling around, looking into each doorway. Or perhaps one had looked around the
corner and seen Benna. He had motioned to the others, and they were just  behind
the corner, getting ready to make a sudden rush.

She could visualize the knives in their hands.

If she took a chance and lost, she'd die, and her mother and daughters would  be
without support. They'd have to beg; Eevroen certainly would be of no help.  And
Handoo and Kheem, three  and five years old,  would grow up, if  they didn't die
first, to be child whores. It was almost inevitable.

While she stood undecided,  knowing that she had  only a few seconds  to act and
perhaps not that, the clouds slid below the moon again. That made the difference
in what she'd do. She ran across the street towards Benna. He was still lying in
the dirt of the street, his head only a few inches from some stinking dog turds.
She scabbarded her dagger, got down on her knees, and rolled him over. He gasped
with terror when he felt her hands upon him.

'It's all right!' she said softly. 'Listen!  Can you get up if I help  you? I'll
get you away!'

Sweat poured into her  eyes as she looked  towards the far comer.  She could see
nothing,  but  if the  hunters  wore black,  they  wouldn't be  visible  at this
distance.

Benna moaned and then said, 'I'm dying, Masha.'

Masha gritted her teeth. She had hoped that he'd not recognize her voice, not at
least until she'd got him to safety. Now, if the hunters found him alive and got
her name  from him,  they'd come  after her.  They'd think  she had the jewel or
whatever it was they wanted.

'Here. Get up,' she said, and struggled  to help him. She was small, about  five
feet tall and weighing eighty-two pounds. But she had the muscles of a cat,  and
fear  was pumping  strength into  her. She  managed to  get Benna  to his  feet.
Staggering under his weight, she supported  him towards the open doorway of  the
building on the corner.

Benna reeked of something strange, an odour of rotting meat but unlike any she'd
ever smelled. It rode over the stale sweat and urine of his body and clothes.

'No use,' Benna mumbled  through greatly swollen lips.  'I'm dying. The pain  is
terrible, Masha.'

'Keep going!' she said fiercely. 'We're almost there!'

Benna raised his head. His eyes were surrounded with puffed-out flesh. Masha had
never seen such oedema;  the blackness and the  swelling looked like those  of a
corpse five days dead in the heat of summer.

'No!' he mumbled. 'Not old Lahboo's building!'


3

Under other circumstances, Masha would have  laughed. Here was a dying man  or a
man who thought he was  dying. And he'd be dead  soon if his pursuers caught  up
with him.  (Me, too,  she thought.)  Yet he  was afraid  to take the only refuge
available because of a ghost.

'You look bad enough to. scare even the Tight-Fisted One,' she said. 'Keep going
or I'll drop you right now!'

She got him inside the doorway, though it wasn't easy what with the boards still
attached to the lower half of the entrance. The top planks had fallen inside. It
was a tribute to the fear people felt for this place that no one had stolen  the
wood, an expensive item in the desert town.

Just after  they'd climbed  over, Benna  almost falling,  she heard  a man utter
something in the raspy tearing language. He  was near by, but he must have  just
arrived. Otherwise, he would have heard the two.

Masha had thought  she'd reached the  limits of terror,  but she found  that she
hadn't. The speaker was a Raggah!

Though she couldn't understand  the speech - no  one in Sanctuary could  - she'd
heard Raggah  a number  of times.  Every thirty  days or  so five  or six of the
cloaked,  robed,  hooded, and  veiled  desert men  came  to the  bazaar  and the
farmers' market. They could speak only  their own language, but they used  signs
and a  plentitude of  coins to  obtain what  they wanted.  Then they departed on
their  horses, their  mules loaded  down with  food, wine,  vuksibah (the  very
expensive malt whisky imported from a  far north land), goods of various  kinds:
clothing, bowls, braziers, ropes, camel and horse hides. Their camels bore  huge
panniers full of feed for chickens,  ducks, camels, horses, and hogs. They  also
purchased steel tools: shovels, picks, drills, hammers, wedges.

They were tall,  and though they  were very dark,  most had blue  or green eyes.
These looked cold and hard and  piercing, and few looked directly into  them. It
was said that they had the gift, or the curse, of the evil eye.

They were enough, in this dark night, to have made Masha marble with terror. But
what was worse, and  this galvanized the marble,  they were the servants  of the
purple mage! Masha guessed at  once what had happened.  Benna had had the  guts 
and the complete stupidity - to sneak  into the underground maze of the mage  on
the river isle of Shugthee  and to steal a jewel.  It was amazing that he'd  had
the courage, astounding that he could get undetected into the caves, an absolute
wonder that he'd penetrated the treasurehold, and fantastic that he'd managed to
get out. What weird tales he could tell if he survived! Masha could think of  no
similar event, no analogue, to the adventures he must have had.

'Mofandsf!' she thought. In the thieves' argot of Sanctuary, ' Mind-boggling!'

At that moment Benna's knees gave, and it  was all she could do to hold him  up.
Somehow, she got  him to the  door to the  next room and  into a closet.  If the
Raggah came  in, they  would look  here, of  course, but  she could  get him  no
further.

Benna's odour was even more sickening in the hot confines of the closet,  though
its door was almost  completely open. She eased  him down. He mumbled,  'Spiders
... spiders.'

She put her mouth  close to his ear.  'Don't talk loudly, Benna.  The Raggah are
close by. Benna, what did you say about the spiders?'

'Bites ... bites,' he murmured. 'Hurt... the ... the emerald ... rich...!'

'How'd you get in?' she said. She put her hand close to his mouth to clamp  down
on it if he should start to talk loudly.

"Wha...? Camel's eye ... bu...'

He stiffened,  the heels  of his  feet striking  the bottom  of the closet door.
Masha pressed her hand down on his  mouth. She was afraid that he might  cry out
in his death agony. If this were  it. And it was. He groaned, and  then relaxed.
Masha took her hand away. A long sigh came from his open mouth.

She looked around  the edge of  the closet. Though  it was dark  outside, it was
brighter than the darkness in the house.  She should be able to make out  anyone
standing in  the doorway.  The noise  the heels  made could  have attracted  the
hunters. She saw no one, though it was possible that someone had already come in
and was against a wall. Listening for more noise.

She felt Benna's pulse. He was dead or so close to it that it didn't matter  any
more. She rose and slowly pulled her dagger from the scabbard. Then she  stepped
out, crouching, sure that the thudding of her heart could be heard in this still
room.

So unexpectedly  and suddenly  that a  soft cry  was forced  from her, a whistle
sounded outside. Feet pounded  in the room -  there was someone here!  - and the
dim rectangle of the doorway showed a bulk plunging through it. But it was going
out, not in. The  Raggah had heard the  whistle of the garrison  soldiers - half
the city must have heard it - and he was leaving with his fellows.

She turned and bent down and searched under Benna's tunic and in his  loincloth.
She found nothing except slowly cooling lumpy flesh. Within ten seconds, she was
out  on the  street. Down  a block  was the  advancing light  of torches,  their
holders not yet visible. In the din of shouts and whistles, she fled hoping that
she wouldn't run into any laggard Raggah or another body of soldiers.

Later, she found out that she'd been saved because the soldiers were looking for
a prisoner  who'd escaped  from the  dungeon. His  name was  Badniss, but that's
another tale.


4

Masha's two-room  apartment was  on the  third floor  of a  large adobe building
which, with two others, occupied an entire block. She entered it on the side  of
the  Street of  the Dry  Well, but  first she  had to  wake up  old Shmurt,  the
caretaker, by beating on  the thick oaken door.  Grumbling at the late  hour, he
unshot the bolt and let her in. She gave him a padpool, a tiny copper coin,  for
his trouble and to shut him up. He handed her her oil lamp, she lit it, and  she
went up the three flights of stone steps.

She had to  wake up her  mother to get  in. Wallu, blinking  and yawning in  the
light of an  oil lamp in  the corner, shot  the bolt. Masha  entered and at once
extinguished her lamp. Oil cost money,  and there had been many nights  when she
had had to do without it.

Wallu, a tall  skinny sagging-breasted woman  of fifty, with  gaunt deeply-lined
features, kissed her daughter on the  cheek. Her breath was sour with  sleep and
goat's cheese. But Masha appreciated the  peck; her life had few expressions  of
love in it. And yet she was full of it; she was a bottle close to bursting  with
pressure.

The light on the rickety table in the corner showed a blank-walled room  without
rugs. In a  far corner the  two infants slept  on a pile  of tattered but  clean
blankets. Beside  them was  a small  chamberpot of  baked clay  painted with the
black and scarlet rings-within-rings of the Darmek guild. .

In  another  corner was  her  false-teeth making  equipment,  wax, moulds,  tiny
chisels, saws, and  expensive wire, hardwood,  iron, a block  of ivory. She  had
only recently repaid the money she'd borrowed to purchase these. In the opposite
corner was another pile of cloth, Wallu's bed, and beside it another  thundermug
with the same design.  An ancient and wobbly  spinning-wheel was near it;  Wallu
made some money with it, though not much. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis,
one eye had a cataract, and the  other was beginning to lose its sight  for some
unknown reason.

Along the adobe wall was a brass charcoal brazier and above it a wooden vent.  A
bin held charcoal. A  big cabinet beside it  held grain and some  dried meat and
plates and knives. Near  it was a baked  clay vase for water.  Next to it was  a
pile of cloths. Wallu pointed at the  curtain in the doorway to the other  room.
'He came home early. I suppose he couldn't cadge drinks enough from his friends.
But he's drunk enough to suit  a dozen sailors.' Grimacing, Masha strode  to the
curtain and pulled  it aside. ''Shewaw!'  (A combination of'Whew!',  'Ugh!', and
'Yech!') The stink was that which greeted her nostrils when she opened the  door
to the Vulgar Unicorn Tavern. A blend of wine and beer, stale and fresh,  sweat,
stale and fresh, vomit, urine, frying blood-sausages, krrf, and kleetel.

Eevroen lay on his back, his mouth open, his arms spread out as if he were being
crucified. Once, he had been a tall muscular youth, very broad-shouldered, slim
waisted, and  long-legged.  Now  he  was fat,  fat,  fat,  double-chinned,  huge
paunched with rings of sagging fat  around his waist. The once bright  eyes were
red and dark-bagged, and the once-sweet  breath was a hellpit of stenches.  He'd
fallen asleep without changing into  nightclothes; his tunic was ripped,  dirty,
and stained with  various things, including  puke. He wore  cast-off sandals, or
perhaps he'd stolen them.

Masha was long past weeping over him. She kicked him in the ribs, causing him to
grunt and to open one eye. But it  closed and he was quickly snoring like a  pig
again.  That,  at least,  was  a blessing.  How  many nights  had  she spent  in
screaming  at him  while he  bellowed at  her or  in fighting  him off  when he
staggered home and insisted she lie with him? She didn't want to count them.

Masha would have got rid of him long ago if she had been able to. But the law of
the empire was that only the man could divorce unless the woman could prove  her
spouse was too diseased to have children or was impotent.

She whirled and walked towards the wash-basin. As she passed her mother, a  hand
stopped her.

Wallu,  peering at  her with  one half-good  eye, said,  'Child! Something  has
happened to you! What was it?'

'Tell you  in a  moment,' Masha  said, and  she washed  her face  and hands  and
armpits. Later, she regretted  very much that she  hadn't told Wallu a  lie. But
how was she to know that Eevroen had come out of his stupor enough to hear  what
she said?  If only  she hadn't  been so  furious that  she'd kicked  him ... but
regrets were  a waste  of time,  though there  wasn't a  human alive  who didn't
indulge in them.

She had no sooner finished telling her mother what had happened with Benna  when
she heard a grunt behind her. She turned to see Eevroen swaying in front of  the
curtains, a stupid grin on his fat face. The face once so beloved.

Eevroen reeled  towards her,  his hands  out as  if he  intended to grab her. He
spoke thickly but intelligibly enough.

'Why'n't you go after the rat? If you caught it, we coulda been rich!'

'Go back to sleep,' Masha said. 'This has nothing to do with you.'

'Nothin do wi' me?' Eevroen bellowed.  'Wha' you mean? I'm your husband!  Wha'ss
yoursh ish mine. I wan' tha' jewel!'

'You  damned  fool,' Masha  said,  trying to  keep  from screaming  so  that the
children  wouldn't wake  and the  neighbours wouldn't  hear, 'I  don't have  the
jewel. There was no way I could get it - if there ever was any.'

Eevroen put a finger alongside his nose  and winked the left eye. 'If there  wa'
ever any, heh? Masha, you tryna hoi' ou' on me? You go' the jewel, and you lyin'
to you' mo ... mo ... mama.'

'No, I'm not lying!'  she screamed, all reason  for caution having deserted  her
quite unreasonably. 'You fat  stinking pig! I've had  a terrible time, I  almost
got killed, and  all you can  think about is  the jewel! Which  probably doesn't
exist! Benna was dying!  He didn't know what  he was talking about!  I never saw
the jewel! And...'

Eevroen snarled, 'You tryna keep i' from me!' and he charged her.

She could easily have evaded him, but something swelled up in her and took over,
and she seized a baked-clay water jug from a shelf and brought it down hard over
his head. The jug  didn't break, but Eevroen  did. He fell face  forwards. Blood
welled from his scalp; he snored.

By  then  the children  were  awake, sitting  up,  wide-eyed, but  silent.  Maze
children learned at an early age not to cry easily.

Shaking, Masha got down on her knees  and examined the wound. Then she rose  and
went to the rag  rack and returned with  some dirty ones,/ no  use wasting clean
ones on him, and stanched the wound. She felt his pulse; it was beating steadily
enough for a drunkard who'd just been knocked out with a severe blow.

Wallu said, 'Is he dead?'

She wasn't concerned  about him. She  was worrying about  herself, the children,
and Masha. If her daughter should  be executed for killing her husband,  however
justified she was, then she and the girls would be without support.

'He'll  have  a hell  of  a headache  in  the morning,'  Masha  said. With  some
difficulty, she  rolled Eevroen  over so  that he  would be  face down,  and she
turned his head sideways and then put some rags under the side of his head. Now,
if he should vomit  during the night, he  wouldn't choke to death.  For a moment
she was tempted to put him back as he had fallen. But the judge might think that
she was responsible for his death.

'Let him lie there,' she said. 'I'm  not going to break my back dragging  him to
our bed. Besides, I wouldn't be able to sleep, he snores so loudly and he stinks
so badly.'

She should have been frightened of what he'd do in the morning. But,  strangely,
she felt exuberant. She'd  done what she'd wanted  to do for several  years now,
and the deed had discharged much of her anger - for the time being, anyway.

She went to  her room and  tossed and turned  for a while,  thinking of how much
better life would be if she could get rid of Eevroen.

Her last thoughts were of what life  could be if she'd got the jewel  that Benna
had thrown to the rat.


5

She awoke an hour or so past dawn,  a very late time for her, and smelled  bread
baking. After  she'd sat  on the  chamberpot, she  rose and  pushed the  curtain
aside. She was  curious about the  lack of noise  in the next  room. Eevroen was
gone. So  were the  children. Wallu,  hearing the  little bells  on the curtain,
turned.

'I sent the  children out to  play,' she said.  'Eevroen woke up  about dawn. He
pretended he didn't  know what had  happened, but I  could tell that  he did. He
groaned now and then -  his head I suppose. He  ate some breakfast, and then  he
got out fast.'

Wallu smiled. 'I think he's afraid of you.'

'Good!' Masha said. 'I hope he keeps on being afraid.'

She sat down while  Wallu, hobbling around, served  her a half loaf  of bread, a
hunk  of  goat  cheese,  and  an orange.  Masha  wondered  if  her  husband also
remembered what she'd said to her mother about Benna and the jewel.

He had.

When she went  to the bazaar,  carrying the folding  chair in which  she put her
dental patients, she  was immediately surrounded  by hundreds of  men and women.
All wanted to know about the jewel.

Masha thought, 'The damn fool!'

Eevroen,  it seemed,  had procured  free drinks  with his  tale. He'd  staggered
around everywhere, the taverns, the bazaar, the farmers' market, the waterfront,
and  he'd spread  the news.  Apparently, he  didn't say  anything about  Masha's
knocking him out. That  tale would have earned  him only derision, and  he still
had enough manhood left not to reveal that.

At first, Masha  was going to  deny the story.  But it seemed  to her that  most
people would think she was lying, and  they would be sure that she had  kept the
jewel. Her life would be miserable from then on. Or ended. There were plenty who
wouldn't hesitate to drag her off  to some secluded place and torture  her until
she told where the jewel was.

So she described exactly what had happened, omitting how she had tried to  brain
Eevroen.  There was  no sense  in pushing  him too  hard. If  he was  humiliated
publicly, he might get desperate enough to try to beat her up.

She got only one patient that day. As fast as those who'd heard her tale ran off
to look for rats, others took their place. And then, inevitably, the  governor's
soldiers came.  She was  surprised they  hadn't appeared  sooner. Surely  one of
their informants had sped to the palace  as soon as he had heard her  story, and
that would have been shortly after she'd come to the bazaar.

The sergeant of the soldiers questioned  her first, and then she was  marched to
the garrison, where a captain  interrogated her. Afterwards, a colonel  came in,
and she had to repeat her tale. And  then, after sitting in a room for at  least
two  hours,  she  was  taken  to  the  governor  himself.  The  handsome  youth,
surprisingly,  didn't  detain  her  long. He  seemed  to  have  checked out  her
movements, starting with Doctor Nadeesh. He'd worked out a timetable between the
moment she left Shoozh's house and the moment she came home. So, her mother  had
also been questioned.

A soldier had seen two of the Raggah running away; their presence was verified.

'Well, Masha,'  the governor  said. 'You've  stirred up  a rat's  nest,' and  he
smiled at his own joke while the soldiers and courtiers laughed.

'There is no evidence that there was any jewel,' he said, 'aside from the  story
this Benna told, and he  was dying from venom and  in great pain. My doctor  has
examined his body, and  he assures me that  the swellings were spider  bites. Of
course, he doesn't know everything. He's been wrong before.

' But people are going to believe that there was indeed a jewel of great  value,
and nothing anyone says, including myself, will convince them otherwise.

'However, all their frantic activity will  result in one great benefit. .  We'll
be rid of the rats for a while.'

He paused, frowning, then said, 'It would seem, however, that this fellow  Benna
might have been foolish enough to steal something from the purple mage. I  would
think that that is the only reason he'd be pursued by the Raggah. But then there
might be another reason. In any event,  if there is a jewel, then the  finder is
going to be in great  peril. The mage isn't going  to let whoever finds it  keep
it.

'Or at least I believe so. Actually, I know very little about the mage, and from
what I've heard about him, I have no desire to meet him.'

Masha thought of asking him why he didn't send his soldiers out to the isle  and
summon the mage. But she kept silent.  The reason was obvious. No one, not  even
the governor, wanted to provoke the wrath of a mage. And as long as the mage did
nothing to force the  governor into action, he  would be left strictly  alone to
conduct his business - whatever that was.

At the end of  the questioning, the governor  told his treasurer to  give a gold
shaboozh to Masha.

'That should more than take care of any business you've lost by being here,' the
governor said.

Thanking him profusely, Masha bowed as she stepped back, and then walked swiftly
homewards.

The following  week was  the great  cat hunt.  It was  also featured,  for Masha
anyway, by a break-in  into her apartment. While  she was off helping  deliver a
baby at the home of the merchant Ahloo shik-Mhanukhee, three masked men  knocked
old Shmurt the doorkeeper  out and broke down  the door to her  rooms. While the
girls and her mother  cowered in a corner,  the three ransacked the  place, even
emptying  the chamberpots  on the  floor to  determine that  nothing was  hidden
there. They didn't find  what they were looking  for, and one of  the frustrated
interlopers  knocked out  two ofWallu's  teeth in  a rage.  Masha was  thankful,
however, that they did not beat or rape the little girls. That may have been not
so  much  because  of  their  mercifulness  as  that  the  doorkeeper   regained
consciousness sooner than they had expected. He began yelling for help, and  the
three thugs ran away before the neighbours could gather or the soldiers come.

Eevroen continued to come in drunk late at night. But he spoke very little, just
using the place  to eat and  sleep. He seldom  saw Masha when  she was awake. In
fact, he seemed to be doing his best to avoid her. That was fine with her.


6

Several times, both by day and night, Masha felt someone was following her.  She
did her best to detect the shadower,  but whether she got the feeling by  day or
night, she failed to do it. She decided that her nervous state was responsible.

Then the great dog hunt began. Masha  thought this was the apex of hysteria  and
silliness. But it  worried her. After  all the poor  dogs were gone,  what would
next be run down and killed and gutted? To be more precise, who? She hoped  that
the who wouldn't be she.

In the middle of the week of  the dog hunt, little Kheem became sick.  Masha had
to go to work, but  when she came home after  sundown, she found that Kheem  was
suffering  from  a high  fever.  According to  her  mother, Kheem  had  also had
convulsions. Alarmed, Masha set  out at once for  Doctor Nadeesh's house in  the
Eastern quarter. He admitted her and listened to her describe Kheem's  symptoms.
But he refused to accompany her to her house.

'It's too dangerous to go into the  Maze at night,' he said. 'And I  wouldn't go
there in the day unless I  had several bodyguards. Besides, I am  having company
tonight. You should have brought the child here.'

'She's too sick to be moved,' Masha said. 'I beg you to come.'

Nadeesh was adamant,  but he did  give her some  powders which she  could use to
cool the child's fever.

She thanked him audibly and cursed him  silently. On the way back, while only  a
block from her apartment, she heard  a sudden thud of footsteps behind  her. She
jumped to one side and whirled, drawing  her dagger at the same time. There  was
no moon, and  the nearest  light was  from oil  lamps shining  through some iron
barred windows in the second storey above her.

By its faintness  she saw a  dark bulk. It  was robed and  hooded, a man  by its
tallness. Then  she heard  a low  hoarse curse  and knew  it was  a man.  He had
thought to grab or strike her from behind, but Masha's unexpected leap had saved
her. Momentarily, at least. Now the  man rushed her, and she glimpsed  something
long and dark in his uplifted hand. A club.

Instead of standing there frozen with  fear or trying to run away,  she crouched
low and charged him. That took him by surprise. Before he could recover, he  was
struck in the throat with her blade.

Still, his body knocked her down, and  he fell hard upon her. For a  moment, the
breath was knocked out  of her. She was  helpless, and when another  bulk loomed
above her, she knew that she had no chance.

The second man,  also robed and  hooded, lifted a  club to bring  it down on her
exposed head.

Writhing, pinned down by the corpse, Masha could do nothing but await the  blow.
She thought briefly of little Kheem, and then she saw the man drop the club. And
he was down on his knees, still gripping whatever it was that had closed off his
breath.

A moment later, he was face down in the dry dirt, dead or unconscious.

The man standing over the second attacker was short and broad and also robed and
hooded. He put something in his pocket, probably the cord he'd used to strangle,
her attacker, and he  approached her cautiously. His  hands seemed to be  empty,
however.

'Masha?' he said softly.

By then  she'd recovered  her wind.  She wriggled  out from  under the dead man,
jerked the dagger from the windpipe, and started to get up.

The man said,  in a foreign  accent, 'You can  put your knife  away, my dear.  I
didn't save you just to kill you.'

'I thank you, stranger,' she said, 'but keep your distance anyway.'

Despite the warning, he took two steps towards her. Then she knew who he was. No
one else in Sanctuary stank so of rancid butter.

'Smhee,' she said, equally softly.

He chuckled. 'I know you can't see my face. So, though it's against my religious
convictions, I will have to take a bath and quit smearing my body and hair  with
butter. I am as silent as a shadow, but what good is that talent when anyone can
smell me a block away?'

Keeping her eyes on  him, she stopped and  cleaned her dagger on  the dead man's
robe.

'Are you the one who's been following me?' she said. She straightened up.

He hissed with surprise, then said, 'You saw me?'

'No. But I knew someone was dogging me.'

'Ah! You have a sixth sense. Or a guilty conscience. Come! Let's get away before
someone comes along.'

'I'd like to know who these men are ... were.'

'They're  Raggah,' Smhee  said. 'There  are two  others fifty  yards from  here,
lookouts, I suppose. They'll  be coming soon to  find out why these  two haven't
shown up with you.'

That shocked her even more than the attack.

'You mean the purple mage wants we? Why?'

'I do not know. Perhaps he thinks as so many others do. That is, that Benna told
you more than you have said he did. But come! Quickly!'

'Where?'

'To your place. We can talk there, can't we?'

They walked swiftly towards her building. Smhee kept looking back, but the place
where they had killed the  two men was no longer  visible. When they got to  the
door, however, she stopped.

'If  I  knock on  the  door for  the  keeper, the  Raggah  might hear  it,'  she
whispered. 'But  I have  to get  in. My  daughter is  very sick.  She needs  the
medicine I got from Dr Nadeesh.'

'So that's why you were  at his home,' Smhee said.  'Very well. You bang on  the
door. I'll be the rearguard.'

He was suddenly  gone, moving astonishingly  swift and silently  for such a  fat
man. But his aroma lingered.

She did as  he'suggested, and presently  Shmurt came grumbling  to the door  and
unbolted it. Just as  she stepped in she  smelled the butter more  strongly, and
Smhee was inside and pushing the door shut before the startled doorkeeper  could
protest.

'He's all right,' Masha said.

Old Shmurt peered with runny  eyes at Smhee by the  light of his oil lamp.  Even
with good vision, however, Shmurt couldn't see Smhee's face. It was covered with
a green mask.

Shmurt looked disgusted.

'I  know  your  husband  isn't  much,' he  croaked.  'But  taking  up  with this
foreigner, this tub of rotten butter ... shewawl'

'It's not what you think,' she said indignantly.

Smhee said, 'I must take a bath. Everyone knows me at once.'

'Is Eevroen home?' Masha said.

Shmurt snorted and said,  'At this early hour?  No, you and your  stinking lover
will be safe.'

'Dammit!' Masha said. 'He's here on business!'

'Some business!'

'Mind your tongue, you old fart!' Masha said. 'Or I'll cut it out!'-

Shmurt  slammed  the door  to  his room  behind  him. He  called,  'Whore! Slut!
Adulteress!'

Masha shrugged, lit her lamp, and went up the steps with Smhee close behind her.
Wallu looked very surprised when the fat man came in with her daughter.

'Who is this?'

'Someone can't identify me?' Smhee swi. 'Does she have a dead nose?'

He removed his mask.

'She doesn't get out much,' Masha  said. She hurried to Kheem, who  lay sleeping
on her rag pile. Smhee  took off his cloak, revealing  thin arms and legs and  a
body like a ball  of cheese. His shirt  and vest, made of  some velvety material
speckled with glittering  sequins, clung tightly  to his trunk.  A broad leather
belt encircled  his paunch,  and attached  to it  were two  scabbards containing
knives, a third  from which poked  the end of  a bamboo pipe,  and a leather bag
about the size of Masha's head. Over  one shoulder and the side of his  neck was
coiled a thin rope.

'Tools of the trade,' he said in answer to Masha's look.

Masha wondered what the  trade was, but she  didn't have time for  him. She felt
Kheem's forehead and pulse,'then went to  the water pitcher on the ledge  in the
corner.

After mixing the powder with the water as Nadeesh had instructed and pouring out
some into a  large spoon, she  turned. Smhee was  on his knees  by the child and
reaching into the bag on his belt.

'I have some talent for doctoring,' he said as she came to his side. 'Here.  Put
that quack's medicine away and use this.'

He stood up and held out a small leather envelope. She just looked at him.

'Yes, I know you don't want to take a chance with a stranger. But please believe
me. This green powder is a thousand times better than that placebo Nadeesh  gave
you. If it doesn't cure the child, I'll cut my throat. I promise you.'

'Much good that'd do the baby,' Wallu said.

'Is it a magical potion?' Masha said.

'No. Magic might relieve the symptoms, but the disease would still be there, and
when the magic wore off, the sickness would return. Here. Take it! I don't  want
you two  to say  a word  about it,  ever, but  I was  once trained in the art of
medicine. And where I come from, a doctor is twenty times superior to any you'll
find in Sanctuary.'

Masha studied his dark shiny face. He looked as if he might be about forty years
old. The  high broad  forehead, the  long straight  nose, the  well-shaped mouth
would have made  him handsome if  his cheeks weren't  so thick and  his jowls so
baggy. Despite  his fatness,  he looked  intelligent; the  black eyes  below the
thick bushy eyebrows were keen and lively.

'I can't afford to experiment with Kheem,' she said.

He smiled, perhaps  an acknowledgement that  he detected the  uncertainty in her
voice.

'You can't afford not to,' he said. 'If you don't use this, your child will die.
And the longer you hesitate, the closer she gets to death. Every second counts.'

Masha took the  envelope and returned  to the water  pitcher. She set  the spoon
down without spilling its contents and began working as Smhee called out to  her
his instructions. He stayed with K-heem, one hand on her forehead, the other  on
her chest. Kheem breathed rapidly and shallowly.

Wallu protested. Masha  told her to  shut up more  harshly than she'd  intended.
Wallu bit her lip and glared at Smhee.

K-heem was propped up by Smhee, and Masha got her to swallow the greenish water.
Ten minutes or so later, the fever began to go down. An hour later, according to
the sandglass, she was given another spoonful. By dawn, she seemed to be rid  of
it, and she was sleeping peacefully.


7

Meantime, Masha and Smhee talked in low tones. Wallu had gone to bed, but not to
sleep,  shortly  before  sunrise.  Eevroen had  not  appeared.  Probably  he was
sleeping off his liquor in an empty crate on the wharf or in some doorway. Masha
was glad. She had been prepared to break another basin over his head if he  made
a fuss and disturbed Kheem.

Though she had seen the fat little man a number of times, she did not know  much
about him. Nobody else did either. It was certain that he had first appeared  in
Sanctuary six weeks (sixty days) ago. A merchant ship of the Banmalts people had
brought him, but this indicated little about his origin since the ship ported at
many lands and islands.              ^

Smhee had quickly taken a room on  the second floor of a building, the  first of
which was occupied  by the K-habeeber  or 'Diving Bird'  Tavern. (The proprietor
had jocularly  named it  thus because  he claimed  that his  customers dived  as
deeply into alcohol for surcease as the khabeeber did into the ocean for  fish.)
He did no work nor was he known to thieve or mug. He seemed to have enough money
for his purposes,  whatever they were,  but then he  lived frugally. Because  he
smeared  his body  and hair  with rancid  butter, he  was called  'The Stinking
Butterball' or 'Old Rotten',  though not to his  face. He spent time  in all the
taverns and also was often seen in the farmers' market and the bazaar. As far as
was known, he had shown no sexual  interest in men or women or children.  Or, as
one wag put it, 'not even in goats'.

His religion was unknown though it was rumoured that he kept an idol in a  small
wooden case in his room.

Now, sitting on  the floor  by Kheem,  making the  child drink  water every half
hour, Masha questioned Smhee. And he in turn questioned her.

'You've been following me around,' Masha said. 'Why?'

'I've also investigated other women.'

'You didn't say why.'

'One answer at a time. I have something  to do here, and I need a woman  to help
me.  She  has  to be  quick  and  strong and  very  brave  and intelligent.  And
desperate.'

He looked around  the room as  if anybody who  lived in it  had to be  desperate
indeed.

'I know your history,' he said.  'You came from a fairly well-to-do  family, and
as a child you lived in the Eastern  quarter. You were not born and bred in  the
Maze, and you want to  get out of it. You've  worked hard, but you just  are not
going to succeed in your ambition.  Not unless something unusual comes your  way
and you have the courage to seize it, no matter what the consequences might be.'

'This has to do with Benna and the jewel, doesn't it?' she said.

He studied her face by the flickering light of the lamp.

'Yes.'

He paused.

'And the purple mage.'

Masha sucked  in a  deep breath.  Her heart  thudded far  more swiftly  than her
fatigue could account  for. A coldness  spread from her  toes to the  top of her
head, a not unpleasant coldness.

'I've watched in the  shadows near your building,'  he said. 'Many a  night. And
two nights  ago I  saw the  Raggah steal  into other  shadows and watch the same
window.  Fortunately,  you did  not  go out  during  that time  to  midwife. But
tonight...'

'Why would the Raggah be interested in me?'

He smiled slowly.

'You're smart enough to guess why. The mage thinks you know more than you let on
about the jewel. Or perhaps he thinks Benna told you more than you've repeated.'

He paused again, then said, 'Did he?'

'Why should I tell you if he did?'

'You owe  me for  your life.  If that  isn't enough  to make  you confide in me,
consider this. I have a plan whereby you  can not only be free of the Maze,  you
can be richer than any merchant,  perhaps richer than the governor himself.  You
will even  be able  to leave  Sanctuary, to  go to  the capital  city itself. Or
anywhere in the world.'

She thought, if Benna could do it, we can. But then Benna had not got away.

She said, 'Why do you need a woman? Why not another man?' Smhee was silent for a
long  time.  Evidently, he  was  wondering just  how  much he  should  tell her.
Suddenly, he smiled,  and something invisible,  an unseen weight  seemed to fall
from him. Somehow, he even looked thinner.

'I've gone this far,' he  said. 'So I must go  all the way. No backing  out now.
The reason I must have  a woman is that the  mage's sorcery has a weakness.  His
magical defences will  be set up  to repel men.  He will not  have prepared them
against women. It  would not occur  to him that  a woman would  try to steal his
treasure. Or ... kill him.'

'How do you know that?'

'I don't think it would be wise to tell you that now. You must take my word  for
it. I do know far more about the purple mage than anyone else in Sanctuary.'

'You might, and that still wouldn't be  much,' she said. 'Let me put it  another
way. I do know  much about him. More  than enough to make  me a great danger  to
him.'

'Does he know much about you?'

Smhee smiled again. 'He doesn't know I'm here. If he did, I'd be dead by now.'

They talked until dawn, and by  then Masha was deeply committed. If  she failed,
then her fate would be horrible. And  the lives of her daughters and her  mother
would become even worse. Far worse. But  if she continued as she had, she  would
be dooming them  anyway. She might  die of a  fever or be  killed, and then they
would have no supporter and defender.

Anyway as Smhee pointed out, though he  didn't need to, the mage was after  her.
Her only defence  was a quick  offence. She had  no other choice  except to wait
like a dumb sheep and be slaughtered. Except that, in this situation, the  sheep
would be tortured before being killed.

Smhee knew what he was saying when he had said that she was desperate.


8

When the wolfs tail, the false dawn, came, she rose stiffly and went through  to
her room and looked out the window. Not surprisingly, the corpses of the  Raggah
were gone.

Shortly thereafter, Kheem awoke, bright-eyed, and asked for food. Masha  covered
her with kisses, and, weeping joyfully, prepared breakfast. Smhee left. He would
be back before noon. But he gave  her five shaboozh and some lesser coin.  Masha
wakened her mother, gave her the money, and told her that she would be gone  for
a few days. Wallu  wanted to question her,  but Masha told her  sternly that she
would be better off if she knew no more than she did now.

'If Eevroen wants  to know where   I am, tell  him that  I  have been called  to
help deliver a rich  farmer's baby. If   he asks for  the man's name,  tell  him
it  is Shkeedur sha-Mizl. He lives far out and only comes into town twice a year
except on special business. It doesn't matter that it's a lie. By the time I get
back it'll be soon - we'll be leaving at once. Have everything we'll need for  a
long journey  packed into  that bag.  Just clothes  and eating  utensils and the
medicine. If Kheem has a relapse, give her Smhee's powders.'

Wallu wailed then, and Masha had to quiet her down.

'Hide the money. No! Leave one shaboozh where Eevroen will find it when he looks
for money. Conceal the rest where he can't find it. He'll take the shaboozh  and
go out to drink, and you won't be bothered with him or his questions.'

When the flaming brass  bowl of the noon  sun had reached its  apex, Smhee came.
His eyes looked very  red, but he didn't  act fatigued. He carried  a carpet bag
from which  he produced  two dark  cloaks, two  robes, and  the masks  which the
priests of Shalpa wore in public.

He said, 'How did you get rid of your mother and the children?'

'A neighbour is keeping the children until mother gets back from shopping,'  she
said. 'Eevroen still hasn't shown up.'.

'Nor will he for  a long time,' Smhee  said. 'I dropped a  coin as I passed  him
staggering this way. He snatched it, of course, and ran off to a tavern.

'The Sailfish will be leaving port  in three days. I've arranged for  passage on
her and also to be hidden aboard her if her departure is delayed. I've been very
busy all morning.'

'Including taking a bath,' she said.

'You don't smell too good yourself,' he said. 'But you can bathe when we get  to
the river. Put these on.'

She went into her room, removed her clothes, and donned the priest's garb.  When
she came  out, Smhee  was fully  dressed. The  bag attached  to his  belt bulged
beneath his cloak.

'Give me your old clothes,' he said. 'We'll cache them outside the city,  though
I don't think we'll be needing them.'

She did so, and he stuffed them into the belt-bag.

'Let's go,' he said.

She didn't follow him to the door. He turned and said, 'What's the matter?  Your
liver getting cold?'

'No,' she  said. 'Only  ... mother's  very short-sighted.  I'm afraid  she'll be
cheated when she buys the food.'

He laughed and said something in a foreign tongue.

'For the sake of Igil! When we return, we'll have enough to buy out the farmers'
market a thousand times over!'

'If we get back...' she murmured. She wanted to go to Looza's room and kiss  the
children  goodbye.  But  that  was  not  wise.  Besides,  she  might  lose   her
determination if she saw them now.

They walked  out while  old Shmurt  stared. He  was the  weakest point  in their
alibi,  but  they hoped  they  wouldn't need  any.  At the  moment,  he was  too
dumbfounded at seeing them to say anything. And he would be afraid to go to  the
soldiers about  this. He  probably was  thinking that  two priests had magically
entered the house, and it would be indiscreet to interfere in their business.

Thirty minutes later, they mounted the two horses which Smhee had arranged to be
tied to a tree outside city limits.

'Weren't you afraid they'd be stolen?' she said.

'There are two stout  fellows hidden in the  grass near the river,'  he said. He
waved towards it, and she saw two men come from it. They waved back and  started
to walk back to the city.

There was a  rough road along  the White Foal  River, sometimes coming  near the
stream, sometimes bending far away. They rode over it for three hours, and  then
Smhee said, 'There's  an old adobe  building a quarter-mile  inland. We'll sleep
there for a while. I don't know about you, but I'm weary.'

She was glad to rest. After hobbling  the horses near a stand of the  tall brown
desert grass, they lay down  in the midst of the  ruins. Smhee went to sleep  at
once. She  worried about  her family  for a  while, and  suddenly she  was being
shaken by Smhee. Dawn was coming up.

They ate  some dried  meat and  bread and  fruit and  then mounted  again. After
watering the horses and themselves at the river, they rode at a canter for three
more hours. And  then Smhee pulled  up on the  reins. He pointed  at the trees a
quarter-mile inland. Beyond, rearing high, were the towering cliffs on the other
side of the river. The trees  on this side, however, prevented them  from seeing
the White Foal.

'The boat's hidden in there,' he  said. 'Unless someone's stolen it. That's  not
likely,  though.  Very few  people  have the  courage  to go  near  the Isle  of
Shugthee.'                              .  .

'What about the hunters who bring down the furs from the north?'

'They hug the eastern shore, and they only go by in daylight. Fast.'

They crossed the rocky ground, passing some low-growing purplish bushes and some
irontrees with grotesquely twisted branches.  A rabbit with long ears  dashed by
them, causing her horse to rear up.  She controlled it, though she had not  been
on a horse since she was eleven. Smhee said that he was glad that it hadn't been
his beast. All he knew about riding was the few lessons he'd taken from a farmer
after coming to Sanctuary. He'd be happy if he never had to get on another one.

The trees  were perhaps  fifteen or  twenty deep  from the  river's' edge.  They
dismounted, removed the saddles, and hobbled the beasts again. Then they  walked
through the tall cane-like plants, brushing away the flies and other pestiferous
insects, until they got  to the stream itself.  Here grew stands of  high reeds,
and on a hummock of spongy earth  was Smhee's boat. It was a dugout  which could
hold only two.

'Stole it,' Smhee said without offering any details.

She looked through the reeds down the river. About a quarter of a mile away, the
river broadened  to become  a lake  about two  and a  half miles .across. In its
centre was the Isle  of Shugthee, a purplish  mass of rock. From  this distance,
she could not make out its details.

Seeing it, she felt coldness ripple over her.

'I'd like to take a whole day and  a night to scout it,' he said. 'So  you could
become familiar with it,  too. But we don't  have time. However, I  can tell you
everything I know. I wish I knew more.'

She doffed her clothes and bathed in the river while Smhee unhobbled the  horses
and took them some distance up to let them drink. When she came back, she  found
him just returning with them.

'Before dusk comes, we'll have to move them down to a point opposite the  isle,'
he said. 'And we'll saddle them, too.'

They left the horses to go to  a big boulder outside the trees but  distant from
the road. At its base  was a hollow large enough  for them to lie down  in. Here
they slept, waking now and then to talk softly or to eat a bite or to go  behind
the'rock and urinate. The insects weren't so numerous here as in the trees,  but
they were bad enough.-

Not once, as far as they knew, did anyone pass on the road.

When they walked the  horses down the road,  Smhee said, 'You've been  very good
about  not  asking  questions,  but  I can  see  you're  about  to  explode with
curiosity. You have no idea who the  purple mage really is. Not unless you  know
more than the other Sanctuarians.'

'All I know,'  she said, 'is  that they say  that the mage  came here about  ten
years ago. He came  with some hired servants,  and many boxes, some  small, some
large. No one knew what  his native land was, and  he didn't stay long in  town.
One day he disappeared with the servants and the boxes. It was some time  before
people found out that he'd moved into the caves of the Isle of Shugthee.  Nobody
had ever gone there because it was said that it was haunted by the ghosts of the
Shugthee. They were a  little hairy people who  inhabited this land long  before
the first city of the ancients was built here.'

'How do you know he's a mage?' Smhee said.

'I don't, but everybody says he is. Isn't he?'

'He is,' Smhee said, looking grim.

'Anyway,  he sent  his servants  in now  and then  to buy  cattle, goats,  pigs,
chickens, horses,  vegetables, and  animal feed  and fruit.  These were  men and
women from some distant land. Not from his, though. And then one day they ceased
coming in. Instead, the Raggah came. From that day on, no one has seen the
servants who came with the mage.'

'He probably got  rid of them,'  Smhee said. 'He  may have found  some reason to
distrust them. Or no reason at all.'

'The fur  trappers and  hunters who've  gone by  the isle  say they've seen some
strange things. Hairy beast-faced dwarfs. Giant spiders.' She shuddered.

'Benna died of spider  bites,' Smhee said. The  fat little man reached  into his
belt-bag and  brought out  a metal  jar. He  said, 'Before  we leave in the boat
tonight we'll rub the ointment in this on us. It will repel some of the  spiders
but not, unfortunately, all.'

'How do you know that?'

'I know.'

They walked silently for a while.  Then he sighed, and said, 'We'll  get bitten.
That is certain. Only ... all the spiders that will bite us - I hope so,  anyway
- won't be real spiders. They'll  be products of the mage's magic.  Apparitions.
But apparitions that can  kill you just as  quickly or as slowly  and usually as
painfully as the real spiders.'

He paused, then said, 'Benna probably died from their bites.'

Masha felt as if she were turning  white under her dark skin. She put  her hands
on his arm.

'But ... but...!'

'Yes, I know. If the spiders were not real, then why should they harm him?  That
is because he thought they were real. His mind did the rest to him.'

She didn't like that she couldn't keep her voice from shaking, but she  couldn't
help it.

'How can you tell which is real and which magical?'

'In the daylight the  unreal spiders look a  little transparent. By that  I mean
that if they stand  still, you can see  dimly through them. But  then they don't
stand still much. And we'll be in the dark of night. So...

'Look here, Masha. You have to be strong stuff to go there. You have to overcome
your fear. A person who lets fear conquer him or her is going to die even if  he
knows that the spider  is unreal. He'll make  the sting of the  bite himself and
the effects  of the  venom. And  he'll kill  himself. I've  seen it happen in my
native land.'

' But you say that we might get bitten by a real spider. How can I tell which is
which in the dark?'

'It's a problem.'

He added  after a  few seconds,  'The ointment  should repulse  most of the real
spiders. Maybe, if we're lucky. You see, we have an advantage that Benna  didn't
have. I know what faces us because I come from the mage's land. His true name is
Kemren,  and  he  brought with  him  the  real spiders  and  some  other equally
dangerous creatures. They would  have been in some  of the boxes. I  am prepared
for them, and so will you be.  Benna wasn't, and any of these Sanctuary  thieves
will get the same fate.'

Masha asked why Kemren had come here. Smhee chewed on his lower lip for a  while
before answering. ••

'You may as well know it all. Kemren was a priest of the goddess Weda  Krizhtawn
of the island of Sharranpip. That is far east and south of here, though you  may
have heard of it. We are a people  of the water, of lakes, rivers, and the  sea.
Weda Krizhtawn is the chief goddess of  water, and she has a mighty temple  with
many treasures near the sea.

'Kemren was  one of  the higher  priests, and  he served  her well for years. In
return, he was admitted into the inner circle of mages and taught both black and
white  magic.  Though, actually,  there  is little  difference  between the  two
branches, the main  distinction being whether  the magician uses  his powers for
good or evil.

'And it isn't always easy to tell what is good and what is evil. If a mage makes
a mistake, and his use turns out to be for evil, even if he sincerely thought it
was for good,  then there is  a ... backlash.  And the mage's  character becomes
changed for the worse in proportion to the amount of magical energy used.'

He stopped walking.

'We're opposite the isle now.'

It  wasn't  visible from  the  road. The  plain  sloped upwards  from  the road,
becoming a high ridge near the river. The tall spreading blackish hukharran bush
grew on top of it. They walked the horses up the ridge, where they hobbled  them
near a pool of rainwater. The beasts began cropping the long brownish grass that
grew among the bushes.

The isle was in  the centre of the  lake and seemed to  be composed mostly of  a
purplish rock. It sloped  gently from the shore  until near the middle,  where a
series  of peculiar  formations formed  a spine.  The highest  prominence was  a
monolith perforated near its top as if a tunnel had been carved through it.

'The camel's eye Benna spoke of,' Smhee said. 'Over there is the formation known
as the  ape's head,  and at  the other  end is  that which  the natives call the
dragon's tail.'

On the  edge of  the isle  grew some  trees, and  in the  waters by  it were the
ubiquitous tall reeds.

There was no sight or sound of life on it. Even the birds seemed to shun it.

'But I floated down past it at night several times,' he said, 'and I could  hear
the lowing of  some cattle and  the braying of  a donkey. Also,  I heard a weird
call, but  I don't  know if  it was  from a  bird or  an animal.  And I  heard a
peculiar grunting sound, but it wasn't from pigs.'

'That camel's eye looks like  a good place for a  sentry,' she said. 'I got  the
impression from Benna that that is where he entered the caves. It must've been a
very dangerous climb, especially during the dark.'

'Benna was a good  man,' Smhee said. 'But  he wasn't prepared enough.  There are
eyes watching now. Probably through holes  in the rocks. From what I  heard, the
mage had his servants buy a number of excavating tools. He would have used  them
to enlarge the caves and to make tunnels to connect the caves.' She took a final
look in the sunlight at the sinister purple mass and turned away.


9

Night had come. The  winds had died down.  The sky was cloudy,  but the covering
was thin. The  full moon glowed  through some of  these, and now  and then broke
through.  The  nightbirds made  crazy  startling sounds.  The  mosquitoes hummed
around them in dense  masses, and if it  hadn't been for Smhee's  ointment would
have driven them out  of the trees within  a few minutes. Frogs  croaked in vast
chorus; things plopped into the water.

They shoved the  boat out to  the edge of  the reeds and  climbed in. They  wore
their cloaks  now but  would take  them off  when they  got to the isle. Masha's
weapons were a dagger and a short thin sword used for thrusting only.

They paddled silently as possible, the current helping their rate of speed,  and
presently the isle loomed  darkly to their right.  They landed halfway down  the
eastern shore and dragged the dugout slowly to the nearest tree.

They put their  cloaks in the  boat, and Masha  placed a coil  of rope over  her
shoulder and neck.

The isle was quiet. Not a sound. Then came a strange grunting cry followed by  a
half-moaning, half-squalling sound. Her neck iced.

'Whatever that is,' Smhee said, 'it's no spider.'

He chuckled as if he were making a joke.

They'd decided - what else  could they do? - that  the camel's eye would be  too
heavily guarded  after Benna's  entrance through  it. But  there had  to be more
accessible places to get in. These would be guarded, too, especially since  they
must have been made more security-conscious by the young thief.

'What I'd like  to find is  a secret exit,'  Smhee said. 'Kemren  must have one,
perhaps more. He knows that there might come a time when he'll be sorely in need
of it. He's a crafty bastard.'

Before they'd taken the boat, Smhee had revealed that Kemren had fled Sharranpip
with many of the temple's treasures.  He had also taken along spiders'  eggs and
some of the temple's animal guardians.

'If he was a high priest,' Masha had said, 'why would he do that? Didn't he have
power and wealth enough?'

'You don't understand our  religion,' the fat thief  had said. 'The priests  are
surrounded by treasures that would pop your eyes out of their sockets if you saw
them.  But the  priests themselves  are bound  by vows  to extreme  poverty, to
chastity, to a harsh bare life. Their reward is the satisfaction of serving Weda
Krizhtawn and her people. It wasn't enough for Kemren. He must have become  evil
while performing  some magic  that went  wrong. He  is the  first priest ever to
commit such a blasphemy.

'And I, a minor priest, was selected to  track him down and to make him pay  for
his crime. I've been  looking for him for  thirteen years. During that  time, to
effect the vengeance of Weda Krizhtawn, I have had to break some of my own  vows
and to commit crimes which I must pay for when I return to my land.'

'Won't she pardon you for these because  you have done them in her name?'  Masha
had said.

'No. She accepts no excuses. She will thank me for completing my mission, but  I
must still pay. Look at  me. When I left Sharranpip,  I was as skinny as  you. I
led a very exemplary life. I ate little, I slept in the cold and rain, I  begged
for my food, I prayed much. But during the years of my crimes and the crimes  of
my years, I have eaten too well so that Kemren, hearing of the fat fellow, would
not recognize me. I have been reeling drunk, I have gambled - a terrible sin - I
have fought with fists and blade, I have taken human lives, I...'

He looked as if he were going to weep.

Masha said, 'But you didn't quit smearing yourself with butter?'

'I should have,  I should have!'  he cried. 'But,  apart from lying  with women,
that is the one thing I could not bring myself to do, though it was the first  I
should have done! And I'll pay for that when I get home, even though that is the
hardest thing for a priest to do! Even Kemren, I have heard, though he no longer
worships Weda Krizhtawn, still butters himself!

'And the only reason  I quit doing that  is that I'm sure  that he's conditioned
his real spiders, and his guardian animals, to attack anyone who's covered  with
butter. That way he can make sure or thinks he can make sure, that no hunter  of
him will ever be able to get close. That is why, though it almost killed me with
shame and guilt, I bathed this morning!'

Masha would have laughed if she hadn't  felt so sorry for him. That was  why his
eyes had looked  so red when  he'd shown up  at her apartment  after bathing. It
hadn't been fatigue but tears that had done it.

They drew their weapons, Masha a short  sword and Smhee a long dagger. They  set
out for the base of the ridge of formations that ran down the centre of the isle
like  serrations  on  a dragon's  back.  Before  they'd gone  far,  Smhee  put a
restraining hand on her arm.

'There's a spider's web just ahead. Between those two bushes. Be careful of  it.
But look out  for other dangers,  since one will  be obvious enough  to distract
your attention from others. And don't forget that the thorns of these bushes are
probably poisonous.'

In the dim moonlight she saw the web. It was huge, as wide as the stretch of her
arms. She thought, if it's so big, what about its spinner?

It seemed  empty, though.  She turned  to her  left and  walked slowly, her head
turned to watch it.

Then something  big scuttled  out from  under the  bush at  her. She stifled her
scream and leaped towards the thing instead of following her desire to run  away
from it.  Her" sword  leaped out  as the  thing sprang,  and it  spitted itself.
Something soft touched the back of her hand. The end of a waving leg.

Smhee came up behind it as she stood  there holding the sword out as far as  she
could to keep the arachnid away. Her  arm got heavy with its weight, and  slowly
the blade sank  towards the ground.  The fat man  slashed the thing's  back open
with his dagger. A foul odour vented from it. He brought his foot down on a  leg
and whispered, 'Pull your sword out! I'll keep it pinned!'

She did so and then backed away.  She was breathing very hard. He jumped  up and
came down with both feet on the creature.

Its legs waved for a while longer,  but it was dying if not already  dead. 'That
was a real spider,' he said, 'although  I suppose you know that. I suspect  that
the false spiders will be much  smaller.'

'Why?' she said. She wished  her heart would quit trying to leap up through  her
throat.

'Because making them requires energy, and  it's more effective to make a  lot of
little spiders  and costs  less energy  than to  make a  few big ones. There are
other reasons which I won't explain just now.'

'Look out!'  she cried,  far louder  than she  should have.  But it  had been so
sudden and had taken her off guard.

Smhee whirled and slashed out, though he hadn't seen the thing. It bounded  over
the  web,  its  limbs spread  out  against  the dimness,  its  great  round ears
profiled. It came  down growling, and  it fell upon  Smhee's blade. This  was no
man's-head sized spider but a thing as big as a large dog and furry and stinking
of something -monkey?  - and much  more vital than  the arachnid. It  bore Smhee
backwards with his weight; he fell on the earth.

Snarling, it tried  to bury its  fangs in Smhee's  throat. Masha broke  from her
paralysis and thrust with a fury and strength that only fear could provide.  The
blade went through its  body. She leaped back,  drawing it out, and  then lunged
again. This time the point entered its neck.

Smhee, gasping, rolled it off him and stood up. He said, 'By Wishvu's  whiskers!
I've got blood all over me. A fine mess! Now the others will smell me!'

'What is it?' Masha said shakily.

'A temple  guardian ape.  Actually, it's  not an  ape but  a very large tailless
monkey. Kemren must have brought some cubs with him.'

Masha got close to the dead beast, which was lying on its back.

The open mouth showed teeth like a leopard's.

'They  eat  meat,'  he  said.  'Unlike  other  monkeys,  however,  they're   not
gregarious. Our  word for  them, translated,  would be  the solitary ape.' Masha
wondered  if  one  of  Smhee's  duties  had  been  teaching.  Even  under  these
circumstances, he had to be pedantic.

He looked around.' Solitary or not, there are probably a number on this isle.'

After dragging  the two  carcasses into  the river,  they proceeded  cautiously.
Smhee looked mostly  ahead; Masha, behind.  Both looked to  both sides of  them.
They came to the base  of the ridges of rock.  Smhee said, 'The animal pens  are
north. That's where I  heard them as I  went by in the  boat. I think we  should
stay away from them. If they scent us and start an uproar, we'll have the Raggah
out and on our asses very quickly.' Smhee stopped suddenly, and said, 'Hold it!'
Masha looked around quickly. What had he seen or heard? The fat man got down  on
his knees and pushed against the earth just in front of him.

He rose and said, 'There's a pit  under that firm-looking earth. I felt it  give
way as I put my foot on it. That's why it pays not to walk swiftly here.'

They circled it,  Smhee testing each  step before taking  another. Masha thought
that if they had to go this slowly, they would take all night before they got to
the ridge.  But then  he led  her to  a rocky  place, and  she breathed  easier.
However, he said, 'They . could carve a pit in the stone and put a pivoting  lid
over it.'

She said, 'Why are we  going this way? You said  the entrances are on the  north
end.'

'I said  that I  only observed  people entering  on the  north end.  But I  also
observed something very interesting near here. I want to check it out. It may be
nothing for us, but again...'

Still moving slowly but faster than on the earth, they came to a little pool. It
was about ten feet in diameter, a dark sheet of water on which bubbles  appeared
and popped. Smhee crouched down and stared at its sinister-looking surface.

She started to whisper a question, but he said, 'Shh!'

Presently, something  scuttled with  a clatter  across the  solid rock  from the
shore. She jumped but uttered no exclamation. The thing looked like a spider  in
the  dark, an  enormous one,  larger than  the one  they'd killed.  It paid  no
attention to them or perhaps it wasn't at all aware of them. It leaped into  the
pool and disappeared. Smhee said, 'Let's get behind that boulder.'

When they were in back of it, she said, 'What's going on?'

'When I was spying, I saw some things going into and coming out of this hole. It
was too  far away  to see  what they  were, though  I suspected  they were giant
spiders or perhaps crabs.'

'So?'

His hand gripped her wrist.

'Wait!'

The minutes oozed  by like snails.  Mosquitoes hummed around  them, birds across
the river called, and once she heard,  or thought she heard, that peculiar  half
grunt, half-squall. And once she started when something splashed in the river. A
fish. She hoped that was all it was.

Smhee said softly, 'Ah!'

He pointed at the pool.  She strained her eyes and  then saw what looked like  a
swelling of the  water in its  centre. The mound  moved towards the  edge of the
pool, and then it left the water. It clacked as it shot towards the river.  Soon
another thing came and then another, and all of a sudden at least twenty  popped
up and clattered across the rocks.

Smhee finally relieved her bursting question.

'They look like the bengil crab of  Sharranpip. They live in that hole but  they
must catch fish in the river.'

'What is that to us?'

'I think the pool  must be an entrance  to a cave. Or  caves. The crabs are  not
water-breathers.'

'Are they dangerous?'

'Only when in water. On land they'll  either run or, if cornered, try to  defend
themselves. They aren't poisonous, but their claws are very powerful.'

He was silent  for a moment,  then said, 'The  mage is using  them to defend the
entrance to a cave, I'm sure. An entrance which is also an exit. For him as well
as for the crabs. That pool has to be one of his secret escape routes.'

Masha thought,  'Oh, no!'  and she  rolled her  eyes. Was  this fat  fool really
thinking about trying to  get inside through the  pool? SL. 'How could  the mage
get out this way if the crabs would attack Bum?'

'He would throw poisoned meat to them. He could do any number of things.  What
matters just now  is that he  wouldn't have bothered  to bring their  eggs along
from Sharranpip unless  he had a  use for them.  Nor would he  have planted them
here unless he needed them to guard  this pool. Their flesh is poisonous to  all
living things except the ghoondah fish.'                    

He chuckled.  'But the  mage has  outsmarted himself.  If I  hadn't noticed  the
bengil, I would never have considered that pool as an entrance.'

While he had been whispering, another  group had emerged and run for  the river.
He counted them, thirty in all.

'Now is the  time to go  in,' he said.  'They'll all be  feeding. That crab  you
first saw was their scout. It  found a good place for catching  fish, determined
that there wasn't  any enemy around,  and returned with  the good news.  In some
ways, they're  more ant  than crab.  Fortunately, their  nests aren't as heavily
populated as an anthole.'

He said, however, that they should wait a few minutes to make sure that all  had
left. 'By all, I mean all but a  few. There are always a few who stay  behind to
guard the eggs.'

'Smhee, we'll drown!'

'If other people can get out through the pool, then we can get in.'

'You don't know for sure that the pool is an escape route!'

'What if the mage put the crabs there for some other reason?'

'What if? What if? I  told you this would be very dangerous. But the rewards are
worth the risk.'

She stiffened. That strange cry had come again. And it was definitely nearer.

'It may  be hunting  us,' Smhee  said. 'It  could have  smelled the blood of the
ape.'

'What is it?' she said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

'I don't know. We're  downwind from it, butTt  sounds as if it'll  soon be here.
Good! That will put some stiffening  in our backbone, heat our livers.  Let's go
now!'

So, he was scared, too. Somehow, that made her feel a little better.

They stuck their  legs down into  the chilly water.  They found no  bottom. Then
Smhee ran  around to  the inland  side and  bent down.  He probed  with his hand
around the edge.

'The rock goes about a foot down, then curves inward,' he said. 'I'll wager that
this was  once a  pothole of  some sort.  When Kemren  came here,  he carved out
tunnels to the cave it led to  and then somehow filled it with river  water.' He
stood up.

The low strange  cry was definitely  closer now. She  thought she saw  something
huge in the darkness to the north, but it could be her imagination.

'Oh, Igil!' she said. 'I have to urinate!'

'Do it in the water. If it smells  your urine on the land, it'll know a  human's
been here. And  it might call  others of its  kind. Or make  such an uproar  the
Raggah will come.'

He let himself down into the water and clung to the stony edge.

'Get in! It's cold but not as cold as death!' She let herself down to his  side.
She had to bite her lip to keep from gasping with shock.

He gave her a few hurried instructions and said, 'May Weda Krizhtawn smile  upon
us!' And he was gone.


10

She took a  deep breath while  she was considering  getting out of  the pool and
running like a lizard chased by a  fox to the river and swimming across  it. But
instead she dived, and as Smhee had told her to do, swam close to the ceiling of
rock. She was blind here even with her eyes open, and, though she thought mostly
about drowning, she had room to think about the crabs. |     Presently, when her
lungs were about to burst and her head I   rang and the violent urge to get  air
was about to make her breathe,  I   her flailing hand was grasped  by something.
The next instant, she was pulled into air.

There was darkness all about. Her gaspings mingled with Smhee's.

He said, between the wheezings,  'There's plenty of air-space between  the water
and the ceiling. I dived down and came  up as fast as I could out of  the water,
and I couldn't touch the rock above.'

After they'd recovered their wind, he said, 'You tread water while I go back.  I
want to see how far back this space goes.'

She didn't have to wait long. She heard his swimming - she hoped it was his  and
not something else - and she called out softly when he was near.

He stopped and said, 'There's plenty of air until just before the tunnel or cave
reaches the  pool. Then  you have  to dive  under a  downthrust ledge of rock. I
didn't go back out, of course, not with that creature out there. But I'm sure my
estimate of distance is right.'

She followed him in the darkness until he said, 'Here's another downthrust.'

She felt where he  indicated. The stone did  not go more than  six inches before
ceasing.

'Does the rope or  your boots bother you  any?' he said. 'If  they're too heavy,
get rid of them.'

'I'm all right.'

'Good. I'll be back soon  - if things are as  I think they are.' She  started to
call to him to wait for her, but  it was too late. She clung to the  rough stone
with her fingertips, moving her legs  now and then. The silence was  oppressive;
it rang in her ears. And once she gasped when something touched her thigh.

The rope and boots did drag her  down, and she was thinking of at  least getting
rid of the rope when something struck her belly. She grabbed it with one hand to
keep it  from biting  her and  with the  other reached  for her dagger. She went
under water of  course, and then  she realized that  she wasn't being  attacked.
Smhee, diving back, had run into her.

Their heads cleared the surface. Smhee laughed.

'Were you as frightened as I? I thought sure a bengil had me!'

Gasping, she said, 'Never mind. What's over there?'

'More of the same.  Another air-space for perhaps  a hundred feet. Then  another
downcropping.'

He clung to the stone  for a moment. Then he  said, 'Have you noticed how  fresh
the air is? There's a very slight movement of it, too.'

She had noticed but  hadn't thought about it.  Her experience with watery  caves
was nil until now.

'I'm sure that each of these caves is connected to a hole which brings in  fresh
air from above,' he said. 'Would the  mage have gone to all this trouble  unless
he meant to use this for escape?'

He did something. She heard him breathing heavily, and then there was a splash,

'I pulled myself  up the rock  and felt around,'  he said. 'There  is a hole  up
there to let air from the next cave into this one. And I'll wager that there  is
a hole in the ceiling. But it must curve so that light doesn't come in. Or maybe
it doesn't curve. If it were day above, we might see the hole.'

He dived; Masha followed  him. They swam ahead  then, putting their right  hands
out from side to side to feel the wall. When they came to the next downcropping,
they went through beneath it at once.

At the end of this cave they  felt a rock ledge that sloped gently  upward. They
crawled out onto it. She heard him fumbling around and then he said, 'Don't  cry
out. I'm lighting a torch.'

The light nevertheless startled her. It came from the tip of a slender stick  of
wood in his hand. By its illumination she saw him apply it to the end of a small
pine torch. This caught fire, giving them  more area of vision. The fire on  the
stick went out. He put the stick back into the opened belt-bag.

'We don't want to leave any evidence we've been here,' he said softly. 'I didn't
mention that this  bag contains many  things, including another  waterproof bag.
But we must hurry. The torch won't last long, and I've got just one more.'

They  stood up  and moved  ahead. A  few feet  beyond the  original area  first
illuminated by the torch were some dark bulks. Boats. Twelve of them, with light
wood frameworks and skin-coverings. Each  could hold three people. By  them were
paddles.

Smhee took out a dagger and began ripping the skins. Masha helped him until only
one boat was left undamaged.

He said, 'There must be entrances cut into the stone sections dividing the caves
we just came through. I'll wager they're  on the left-hand side as you come  in.
Anyone swimming in would  naturally keep to the  right wall and so  wouldn't see
the archways. The ledges where the crabs nest must also be on the left. Remember
that when we  come back. But  I'd better find  out for sure.  We want ,  to know
exactly how to get out when the time comes.'

He set his torch in a socket in  the front of the boat and pushed the  boat down
the slope and into the water. While  Masha held the narrow craft steady, he  got
into it. She stood  on the shore, feeling  lonely with all that  darkness behind
her while she  watched him by  the light of  the brand. Within  a few minutes he
came back, grinning.

'I was right!  There's an opening  cut into the  stone division. It's  just high
enough for a boat to pass through if you duck down.'

They dragged the  boat back up  onto the ledge.  The cave ended  about a hundred
feet from  the water.  To the  right was  a U-shaped  entrance. By its side were
piles of torches and flint and steel and punk boxes. Smhee lit two, gave one  to
Masha, and then returned to the edge of the ledge to extinguish his little one.

'I think  the mage  has put  all his  magic spiders  inside the caves,' he said.
'They'd require too  much energy to  maintain on the  outside. The further  away
they are from him, the  more energy he has to  use to maintain them. The  energy
required increases according to the square of the distance.'

Masha didn't ask him what he meant by 'square'.

'Stick close to me. Not just for your  sake. For mine also. As I said, the  mage
will not have considered women trying to  get into his place, so his powers  are
directed against men only. At least, I  hope they are. That way he doesn't  have
to use as much energy on his magic.'

'Do you want me to lead?' she said, hoping he wouldn't say yes.

'If you had as  much experience as I,  I wouldn't hesitate a  moment. But you're
still an apprentice.  V we get  out of here  alive, you will  be on your  way to
being a master.'

They went up  the steps cut  out of the  stone. At the  top was another archway.
Smhee stopped before it and held his  torch high to look within it. But  he kept
his head outside it.

'Ha!'


11

He motioned  her to  come to  his side.  She saw  that the  interior of the deep
doorway was grooved. Above the grooves was the bottom of a slab of stone.

'If the mechanism is triggered, that  slab will crash down and block  off anyone
chasing the mage,' he said. 'And it'd crush anyone in the portal. Maybe ...'

He looked at the wall surrounding the archway but could find nothing.

'The release mechanism must be in the other room. A time-delay device.'

He got as near to the entrance as  he could without going into it, and he  stuck
his torch through the opening.

'I can't see it. It must be just around the corner. But I do see what looks like
webs.'

Masha breathed deeply.

'If  they're real  spiders, they'll  be intimidated  by the  torches,' he  said.
'Unless the mage has conditioned them not to be or uses magic to overcome  their
natural fear. The magic spiders won't pay any attention to the flame.'

She thought that it was all very uncertain, but she did not comment.

He bent down and peered at the  stone floor just beyond the doorway. He  turned.
'Here. Your young  eyes are better  than my old  ones. Can you  see a thread  or
anything like it raised above the floor just beyond the door?'

She said, 'No, I can't.'

'Nevertheless.'

He threw his  torch through the  doorway. At his  order, she got,  down with her
cheek against the stone and looked against the flame.

She rose, saying, 'I can see a very thin line about an inch above the floor.  It
could be a cord.'

'Just as I thought. An old Sharranpip trick.'

He stepped back after asking  her to get out of  the way. And he leaped  through
the doorway and came down past the  cord. She followed. As they picked up  their
torches, he said pointing, 'There are the mechanisms. One is the time-delay. The
other releases the door so it'll fall behind the first who enters and trap  him.
Anyone following will be crushed by the slab.'

After telling her to keep an eye on the rest of the room, he examined the  array
of wheels,  gears, and  counterweights and  the rope  that ran  from one  device
through a hole in the ceiling.

'The rope is probably attached to an alarm system above,' he said. 'Very well. I
know how to actuate both  of these. If you should  by any foul chance come  back
alone, all you have to do is to jump through and then throw a torch or something
on that  cord. The  door will  come down  and block  off your  pursuers. But get
outside as fast as you can because...'

Masha said, 'I know why.'

'Good woman. Now, the spiders.'

The things  came before  the webs  were clearly  visible in  the lights. She had
expected to  see the  lights reflected  redly in  their eyes,  but they weren't.
Their many eyes were huge and purplish and cold. They scuttled forwards,  waving
the foremost pair of  legs, then backed away  as Smhee waved his  torch at them.
Masha walked half-turned away from him so that she could use the brand to  scare
away any attack from the rear or side.

Suddenly, something leaped from the edge of the darkness and soared towards her.
She thrust the brand at it. But the creature seemed to go through the torch.

It landed on her arm and seized the harfd that held the torch. She had  clenched
her teeth to keep from screaming if something like this happened. But she didn't
even think of voicing her terror and disgust. She closed her hand on the body of
the thing to crush it, and the fingers felt nothing.

The next moment, the spider disappeared.

She told Smhee what had happened.

'Thanks be to Klooshna!' he said. 'You are invulnerable to them. If you weren't,
you'd be swelling up now!'

'But what ifit'd been a real spider?'  she said as she kept waving her  torch at
the monsters that circled them. 'I didn't  know until my hand closed on it  that
it was not real.'

'Then you'd be dying. But the fact that it ignored the brand showed you what  it
really was. You realized that even if you didn't think consciously about it.'

They came to another archway. While she threw her torch through it and got  down
to look for another thread, Smhee held off the spiders.

'There doesn't seem to be any,' she said.

'Seem isn't  good enough,'  he said.  'Hah, back,  you creatures  of evil!  Look
closely! Can you see any thin lines in the floor itself? Minute cracks?'

After a few seconds, she said, 'Yes. They form a square.'

'A trapdoor to drop us into a pit,'  he said. 'You jump past it. And let's  hope
there isn't another trap just beyond it.'

She said that she'd need a little run to clear the line. He charged the spiders,
waving his torch furiously,  and they backed away.  When she called to  him that
she was safe, he  turned and ran and  leaped. A hairy, many-legged  thing dashed
through the  entrance after  him. Masha  stepped up  to the  line and thrust her
brand at it. It stopped. Behind it were masses that moved, shadows of solidity.

Smhee leaped towards the  foremost one and jammed  the burning red of  his brand
into  the head.  The stink  of charred  flesh assailed  their nostrils.  It ran
backwards but  was stopped  by those  behind it.  Then they  retreated, and  the
thing,  its  eyes  burned  out,   began  running  around  and  around,   finally
disappearing into the darkness. The others  were now just beyond the doorway  in
the other cave. Smhee threw his torch into it.

'That'll  keep them  from coming  through!' he  said, panting.  'I should  have
brought some extra torches, but  even the greatest mind sometimes  slips. Notice
how the weight of  those spiders didn't make  the trapdoor drop? It  must have a
minimum limit. You only weigh eighty-five pounds. Maybe...?'

'Forget it,' she said.

' Right you  are,', he said,  grinning. 'But Masha,  if you are  to be a  master
thief, you must think of everything.'

She thought of reminding him about the extra torches he'd forgotten but  decided
not to. They went on ahead through an enormous cavern and came to a tunnel. From
its dark mouth streamed a stink like a newly opened tomb. And they heard the cry
that was half-grunt, half-squall.

Smhee halted. 'I hate to go into  that tunnel. But we must. You look  upward for
holes in the ceiling, and I'll look everywhere else.'

The stone, however,  looked solid. When  they were halfway  down the bore,  they
were blasted with a tremendous growling and roaring.

'Lions?' Masha said.

'No. Bears.'


12

At the opposite end were two gigantic animals, their eyes gleaming redly in  the
light, their fangs a dull white.

The two  intruders advanced  after waiting  for the  bears to  charge. But these
stayed by the doorway,  though they did not  cease their thunderous roaring  nor
their slashes at the air with their paws.

'The bears were making the strange  cry,' she said. 'I've seen dancing  bears in
the bazaars, but I never heard them  make a noise like that. Nor were  they near
as large.'

He said, 'They've got chains around their necks. Come on.'

When they were  within a few  feet of the  beasts, they stopped.  The stench was
almost overpowering now, and they were deafened by the uproar in the  narrowness
of the tunnel.

Smhee told her to hold her torch  steady. He opened his belt-bag and pulled  out
two lengths of bamboo pipe and joined  them. Then, from a small wooden case,  he
cautiously extracted  a feathered  dart. He  inserted it  in one  and raised the
blowpipe almost to his lips.

'There's enough poison  on the tip  of the dart  to kill a  dozen men,' he said.
'However, I doubt  that it would  do much harm,  if any, if  the dart sticks  in
their thick fat. So...'

He waited a long time, the pipe  now at his lips. Then, his cheeks  swelled, and
the dart shot out.  The bear to the  right, roaring even louder,  grabbed at the
missile stuck in its left eye. Smhee fitted another dart into the pipe and  took
a step closer. The monster on the left lunged against the restraining collar and
chain. Smhee shot the second dart into its tongue.

The  first  beast struck  fell  to one  side,  its paws  waving,  and its  roars
subsided. The other took longer to become quiet, but presently both were snoring
away.

'Let's hope they die,' Smhee said. 'I doubt we'll have time to shoot them  again
when we come back.'

Masha thought  that a  more immediate  concern was  that the  roaring might have
alarmed the mage's servants.

They went through a  large cavern, the floor  of which was littered  with human,
cattle, and  goat skeletons  and bear  dung. They  breathed through their mouths
until they got to an exit. This was a doorway which led to a flight of steps. At
the top of  the steps was  another entrance with  a closed massive  wooden door.
Affixed to one side was a great wooden bar.

'Another hindrance to pursuers,'  Smhee said. 'Which will,  in our case, be  the
Raggah.'

After a careful inspection of the door, he gripped its handle and slowly  opened
it. Freshly oiled, it  swung noiselessly. They went  out into a very  large room
illuminated by six great torches at one end.. Here streams of water ran out from
holes in the  ceiling and down  wooden troughs and  onto many wooden  wheels set
between metal uprights.

Against the right-hand side of the  far wall was another closed door  as massive
as the first. It, too, could be barred shut.

Unlike the bare walls of the  other caves, these were painted with  many strange
symbols.

'There's magic here,' Smhee said. 'I smell it.'

He strode to the pool in which  were set the wheels. The wheels went  around and
around impelled by the downpouring water. Masha counted aloud. Twelve.

'A magical number,' Smhee said.

They were set in rows  of threes. At one end  of the axle of each  were attached
some gears which in  turn were fixed to  a shaft that ran  into a box under  the
wheel. Smhee reached out to the nearest wheel from the pool edge and stopped it.
Then he  released it  and opened  the lid  of the  box beneath  the wheel. Masha
looked past him  into the interior  of the box.  She saw a  bewildering array of
tiny gears and shafts. The shafts were  connected to more gears at the axle  end
of tiny wheels on uprights.

Smhee stopped the wheel  again and spun it  against the force of  the waterfall.
The mechanism inside started working backwards.

Smhee smiled. He closed the  box and went to the  door and barred it. He  walked
swiftly to the other side of the pool. There was a large box on the floor by it.
He opened it and removed some metal pliers and wrenches.

'Help me get those wheels off their stands,' he said.

'Why?'

'I'll explain while we work.' He  looked around. 'Kemren would have done  better
to have set human guards here. But  I suppose he thought that no one  would ever
get this  far. Or,  if they  did, they'd  not have  the slightest  idea what the
wheels are for.'

He told her what she  was to do with the  wheels, and they waded into  the pool.
The water only came to their ankles; a wide drain in the centre ensured  against
overflow.

Masha didn't like being drenched, but she was sure that it would be worthwhile.

'These boxes contain  devices which  convert the  mechanical power  of the water
driven wheels  to magical  power,' he  said. 'There  are said  to be some in the
temple ofWeda Krizhtawn, but I was too lowly to be allowed near them. However, I
heard the high priests  talking about them. They  sometimes got careless in  the
presence of us lowly ones. Anyway, we were bound by vows to keep silent.

'I don't know  exactly what these  particular wheels are  for. But they  must be
providing energy for whatever magic he's using. Part of the energy, anyway.'

She  didn't really  understand what  he was  talking about,  though she  had an
inkling. She worked steadily, ignoring the wetting and removed a wheel. Then she
turned it around and reattached it.

The wheel bore  symbols on each  of the paddles  set along its  rims. There were
also symbols painted on its side.

Each wheel seemed to have the same symbols but in a different sequence.

When their work was done, Smhee said, 'I don't know what their reversal will do.
But I'll wager that it  won't be for Kemren's good.  We must hurry now. If  he's
sensitive to the inflow-outflow of his magic, .he'll know something's wrong.'

She thought that it would be better not to have aroused the mage. However, Smhee
was the master; she, the apprentice.

Smhee started to turn away from the wheels but stopped.

'Look!'

His finger pointed at the wheels.

'Well?'

'Don't you see something strange?'

It was a moment before she saw  what had made her uneasy without realizing  why.
No water was spilling from the paddles  down to the pool. The water just  seemed
to disappear after striking  them. She looked wonderingly  from them to him.  'I
see what you mean.'

He spread out  his hands. 'I  don't know what's  happening. I'm not  a mage or a
sorcerer. But... that water has to be going some place.'

They put  their boots  back on,  and he  unshot the  bar of  the door. It led to
another flight of steps, ending in  another door. They went down a  corridor the
walls of which were bare stone. But there were also lit torches set in  brackets
on them.

At the  end of  the corridor  they came  to a  round room.  Light came down from
torches; the room was  actually a tall shaft.  Looking up from the  bottom, they
could see a black square outlined narrowly by bright light at its top.


13

Voices came from above.

'It has to be a lift,' Smhee  whispered. He said something in his native  tongue
that sounded like a curse.

'We're stuck here until the lift comes down.'

He'd no sooner spoken than they heard a squeal as of metal, and the square began
descending slowly.

'We're in  luck!' Smhee  said. 'Unless  they're sending  down men  to see what's
happened to the wheels.'

They retreated through the  door at the other  end. Here they waited  with their
blades ready. Smhee kept the door open a crack.

'There are  only two.  Both are  carrying bags  and one  has a  haunch of  meat.
They're going to feed the bears and the spiders!'

Masha wondered how the men intended to get past the bears to the arachnids.  But
maybe the bears attacked only strangers.

'One man has a torch,' he said.

The door swung open, and a  Raggah wearing a red-and-black striped robe  stepped
through. Smhee  drove his  dagger into  the man's  throat. Masha  came out  from
behind the door and thrust her sword through the other man's neck.

After dragging the bodies  into the room, they  took off the robes  and put them
on.

'It's too big for me,' she said. 'I look ridiculous.'

'Cut off the bottom,' he said, but she had already started doing that.

'What about the blood on the robes?'

'We could wash  it out, but  then we'd look  strange with dripping  robes. We'll
just have to take a chance.'

They left the bodies lying on the floor  and went back to the lift. This was  an
open-sided cage  built of  light (and  expensive) imported  bamboo. The  top was
closed, but it had a" trap door. A rope descended through it.

They looked up but could see no one looking down.

Smhee pulled on the rope, and a bell clanged. No one was summoned by it, though.

'Whoever pulls this up is gone. No doubt he, or they, are not expecting the  two
to return so early. Well, we must  climb up the pull-ropes. I hope you're  up to
it.'

'Better than you, fat one,' Masha said.

He smiled. 'We'll see.'

Masha, however, pulled herself up faster than  he. She had to climb up onto  the
beam to which the wheel was attached  and then crawl along it and swing  herself
down into the entrance. Smhee caught her  as she landed on the edge, though  she
didn't need his help. They were in  a hallway the walls of which were  hung with
costly rugs and along which was expensive furniture. Oil lamps gave an  adequate
illumination.

'Now comes the hard part,' he  said between deep breaths. 'There is  a staircase
at each end of this hall. Which leads to the mage?'

'I'd take that one,' she said, pointing.

'Why?'

'I don't  exactly know  why. I  just feel  that it's  the right one.' He smiled,
saying, 'That's as good a reason as  any for me. Let's go.' Their hands  against
each  other inside  their voluminous  sleeves, but  holding daggers,  the hoods
pulled out to shadow their faces, they walked up the stairs. These curved to end
in another hall, even more luxuriously furnished. There were closed doors  along
it, but Smhee wouldn't open them.

'You can wager that the mage will have a guard or guards outside his apartment.'

They went up another flight of steps in  time to see the back of a Raggah  going
down the  hall. At  the corner,  Masha looked  around it.  No one  in sight. She
stepped out, and just then a Raggah came around the corner at the right-hand end
of the hall. She slowed, imperceptibly, she hoped, then resumed her stride.  She
heard Smhee behind her saying, 'When you get close, within ten feet of her, move
quickly to one side.' She did so just as the Raggah, a woman, noticed the  blood
on the front of her robe. The  woman opened her mouth, and Smhee's thrown  knife
plunged into her belly. She fell forwards with a thump. The fat man withdrew his
knife, wiped it on  the robe, and they  dragged her through a  doorway. The room
was unlit. They dropped her near the door and went out, closing it behind them.

They went down to the end of the  hall from which the woman had come and  looked
around the corner. There was a very wide and high-ceilinged corridor there,  and
from a great doorway halfway down it came much light, many voices, and the odour
of cooking. Masha hadn't realized until  then how hungry she was; saliva  ran in
her mouth.

'The other way,' Smhee said, and  he trotted towards the staircase. At  its top,
Masha looked  around the  corner. Halfway  down the  length of  this hall  a man
holding a spear stood before a door.  By his side crouched a huge black  wolfish
dog on a leash.

She told Smhee what she'd seen.

As excited  as she'd  ever seen  him, he  said, 'He  must be guarding the mage's
rooms!'

Then, in a calmer tone,  'He isn't aware of what  we've done. He must be  with a
woman or a man. Sexual intercourse, you  know, drains more out of a person  than
just physical energy. Kemren won't be sensitive to the wheels just now.'

Masha didn't see any reason to comment on that. She said, 'The dog didn't notice
me, but we can't get close before he alerts the guard.'

Masha looked  behind her.  The hall  was still  empty. But  what if the mage had
ordered a meal to be delivered soon?

She told Smhee what  she'd just thought. After  a brief consultation, they  went
back down the stairs  to the hall. There  they got an exquisitely  silver-chased
tray and  put some  small painted  dishes and  gold pitchers  on it.  These they
covered with a golden cloth, the worth  of which was a thousand times more  than
Masha could make if  she worked as dentist  and midwife until she  was a hundred
years old.

With this assemblage, which they hoped would look like a late supper tray,  they
went to the hall. Masha had said that if the mage was with a sexual partner,  it
would look  more authentic  if they  carried two  trays. But  even before  Smhee
voiced his  objections, she  had thought  that he  had to  have his  hands free.
Besides, one  tray clattering  on the  floor was  bad enough,  though its impact
would be softened by the thick rug.

The guard  seemed half-asleep,  but the  dog, rising  to its  feet and growling,
fully awakened him. He turned towards  them, though not without a glance  at the
other end of the hall  first. Masha, in front of  Smhee, walked as if she  had a
right to be  there. The guard  held the spear  pointing at them  in one hand and
said something in his harsh back-of-the-throat speech.

Smhee uttered a string of nonsense  syllables in a low but equally  harsh voice.
The guard said something. And then Masha stepped to one side, dropping the tray.
She bent over, muttering something guttural, as if she were apologizing for  her
clumsiness.

' She couldn't see Smhee, but she  knew that he was snatching the blowpipe  from
his sleeve and applying it to his lips. She came up from her bent position,  her
sword leaping  out of  her scabbard,  and she  ran towards  the dog.  It bounded
towards her, the guard having released the leash. She got the blade out from the
leather just  in time  and rammed  it into  the dog's  open mouth  as it  sprang
soundlessly towards her  throat. The blade  drove deep into  its throat but  she
went backwards from its weight and fell onto the floor.

The sword had been torn from her grip, but the dog was heavy and unmoving on her
chest. She pushed him off though he must have weighed as much as she. She rolled
over and got quickly,  but trembling, to her  feet. The guard was  sitting down,
his back against the  wall. One hand clutched  the dart stuck in  his cheek. His
eyes were open but glazing. In a  few seconds the hand fell away. He  slumped to
one side, and his bowels moved noisily.

The dog  lay with  the upper  length of  the sword  sticking from its mouth. His
tongue extended from the jaws,  bloody, seeming almost an independent  entity, a
stricken worm.

Smhee grabbed the bronze handle of the door.

'Pray for us, Masha! If he's barred the door on the inside ...!'

The door swung open.

Smhee bounded in,  the dead man's  spear in his  hands. Masha, following,  saw a
large room the  air of which  was green and  reeking of incense.  The walls were
covered with tapestries, and the  heavy dark furniture was ornately  carved with
demons' heads. They paused to listen  and heard nothing except a faint  burbling
noise.

'Get the bodies in  quickly!' Smhee said, and  they dragged the corpses  inside.
They expected the  dreaded mage to  walk in at  any time, but  he still had  not
appeared when they shut the door.

Smhee whispered, 'Anyone coming by will notice that there is no guard.'

They entered the next  room cautiously. This was  even larger and was  obviously
the bedroom. The bed was huge and  round and on a platform with three  steps. It
was covered with a rich scarlet material brocaded in gold.

'He must be working in his laboratory,' Smhee whispered.

They slowly opened the door to the next room.

The burbling became louder then. Masha saw that it proceeded from a great  glass
vessel shaped like an upside-down cone. A black-green liquid simmered in it, and
large bubbles rose from it and passed out the open end. Beneath it was a brazier
filled with  glowing coals.  From the  ceiling above  a metal  vent admitted the
fumes.

The floor was mosaic marble in which were set pentagrams and nonagrams. From the
centre of one rose a wisp of evil-smelling smoke. A few seconds later, the smoke
ceased.

There were many tables holding other mysterious equipment and racks holding long
thick rolls of parchment and papyrus. In the middle of the room was a very large
desk of some  shiny reddish wood.  Before it was  a chair of  the same wood, its
arms and back carved with human-headed dragons.

The mage, clad in a purple silk robe which was embroidered with golden  centaurs
and gryphons, was  in the chair.  His face was  on the desk,  and his arms  were
spread out on it. He stank of rancid butter.

Smhee approached  him slowly,  then grabbed  the thin  curly hair  of the mage's
topknot and raised the head.

There was water on the desk, and water ran from the dead man's nose and mouth.

'What happened to him?' she whispered. .

Smhee did not reply at once. He lifted the body from the chair and placed it  on
the floor. Then he knelt and thumped the mage's chest.

The fat man rose smiling.

'What happened is that the reversal of the wheels' motion caused the water which
should have fallen off the paddles to go instead to the mage. The conversion  of
physical energy to magical energy was reversed.'

He paused.

'The water went into the mage's body. He drowned\'

He raised his eyes and said,  'Blessed is Weda Krizhtawn, the goddess  of water!
She has her revenge through her faithful servant, Rhandhee Ghee!'

He looked at Masha.'  That is my true  name, Rhandhee Ghee. And  I have revenged
the goddess and  her worshippers. The  defiler and thief  is dead, and  I can go
home now. Perhaps she will forgive some of my sins because I have fulfilled  her
intent. I won't go to hell, surely. I will suffer in a purgatory for a while and
then, cleansed with pain,  will go to the  lowest heaven. And then,  perhaps...'
'You forget  that I  am to  be paid,'  she said.  'No, I  didn't. Look. He wears
golden rings set with jewels of immense value. Take them, and let's be off.'

She shuddered and said, 'No. They would bring misfortune.'

'Very well. The  next room should  be his treasure chamber.' It was.  There were
chests and boxes filled with  emeralds, diamonds, turquoises, rubies,  and  many
other jewels.  There  were  golden and  silver idols   and statuettes. There was
enough wealth to purchase   a dozen of the  lesser cities of the  empire and all
their citizens.

But she could only take what she could carry and not be hampered in the leaving.
Exclaiming ecstatics, she reached towards  a coffer sparkling with diamonds.  At
her touch, the jewels faded and were gone.


14

She cried out in anguish.

'They're products of his  magic!' Smhee said. 'Set  here to fool thieves.  Benna
must have taken one of these, though how he got here and then away I've no idea!
The jewel  did not  disappear because  the mage  was alive  and his  powers were
strong. But I'll wager  that not. long after  the rat carried the  jewel off, it
disappeared. That's why the searchers found no jewel though they turned the city
upside down and inside out!'

'There's plenty of other stuff to take!' she said.

'No, too heavy. But he must have put his real jewels somewhere. The next room!'

But there were no other rooms.

'Don't  you believe  it,' Smhee  said. He  tore down  the tapestries  and began
tapping on the walls, which were  of a dense-grained purplish wood erected  over
the stone. Presently,  he said, 'Ah!'  and he moved  his hands swiftly  over the
area. 'Here's a hole in  the wood just big enough  to admit my little finger.  I
put my finger in thus, and I pull thus, and thus...!'

A section of the wood swung out. Masha got a burning lamp and thrust it into the
room beyond. The light fell on  ten open chests and twenty open  coffers. Jewels
sparkled.

They entered.

'Take two handsful,' Smhee said. 'That's all. We aren't out of here yet.'

Masha untied the little  bag attached to her  belt, hesitated, then scooped  out
enough to fill the bag.  It almost tore her heart  apart to leave the rest,  but
she knew that Smhee's advice was wisdom. Perhaps, some day, she could come  back
for more. No. That would be stupid. She had farmore than enough.

On the way out, Smhee stopped. He opened  the mage's robe and revealed a smooth
shaven chest on which was tattooed a representation of a fearful six-armed four
legged being with a glaring long-tusked face. He cut around this and peeled  the
skin off and put  it rolled and folded  into a small jar  of ointment. Replacing
the jar in  his bag, he  rose, saying, 'The  goddess knows that  I would not lie
about  his  death.   But  this  will   be  the  proof   if  any  is   demanded.'

'Maybe we should look for the mage's secret exit,' she said. 'That way, we won't
run into the Raggah.'

'No. At any moment someone may see that the guard is missing. Besides, the  mage
will have put traps in his escape route, and we might not elude those.'

They  made their  way back  to the  corridor of  the lift  shaft without  being
observed. But  two men  stood in  front of  the entrance  to the lift. They were
talking excitedly and looking  down the shaft. Then  one ran down the  corridor,
away from the corner behind which the two intruders watched.

'Going to  get help  before they  venture down  to find  out why the two feeders
haven't come back,' Smhee muttered.

The man who'd stayed was looking down  the shaft. Masha and Smhee took him  from
behind, one cutting  the throat, the  other stabbing him  in the back.  They let
themselves down on  the ropes and  then cut them  before going down  through the
open trap door. But as  they left the cage, a  spear shot through the trap  door
and thudded point-first into the floor. Men shouted above.

'They'll bring  ropes and  come down  on those,'  Smhee said.  'And they'll send
others outside to catch us when we  come out of the pool. Run, but  remember the
traps'.'

And the spiders,  she thought. And  the crabs. I  hope the bears  are dead. They
were. The spiders, all real now that  the mage was dead, were alive. These  were
driven back by  the torches the  two had paused  to light, and  they got to  the
skin-boat. They pushed this out  and began paddling with desperation.  The craft
went through the first arch and then through the second. To their right now were
some ledges  on which  were masses  of pale-white  things with  stalked eyes and
clacking pincers. The crabs.  The two directed their  boat away from these,  but
the  writhing masses  suddenly became  individual figures  leaping outwards  and
splashing into the dark water. Very quickly, the ledges were bare. There was  no
sign of the monsters, but the two knew that these were swimming towards them.

They paddled even faster, though it had not seemed possible until then. And then
the prow of the  boat bumped into the  wall. 'Swim for it!'  Smhee bellowed, his
voice rebounding from the far walls and high ceilings of the cave.

Masha feared entering the water; she expected to be seized by those huge  claws.
But she went over, the boat tipping, and dived.

Something did touch her leg as she went under the stone down-cropping. Then  her
head was above the surface of the pool and Smhee's was beside her.

They scrambled out onto the hard stone. Behind them came the clacking, but  none
of the crabs tried to leave the pool.

The sky was black; thunder bellowed in the north; lightning traced white  veins.
A wind blew, chilling them in their wet clothes.

They ran towards the dugout but not  in a straight line since they had  to avoid
the bushes with the  poisonous thorns. Before they  reached it, rain fell.  They
dragged the craft into  the river and got  aboard. Above them lightning  cracked
across the sky. Another bolt struck shortly thereafter, revealing two bears  and
a number of men behind them.

'They can't catch us now!' Smhee yelled. 'But they'll be going back to put their
horses on rafts. They'll go all the way into Sanctuary itself to get us!'

Save your breath, Masha thought. I know all that.

The wind-struck  river was  rough now,  but they  got through  the waves  to the
opposite  shore. They  climbed panting  up the  ridge and  found their  horses,
whinnying from fear of the lightning. When they got to the bottom of the  ridge,
they sped away, their passage fitfully lit by the dreadful whiteness that seemed
to smash all around them.  They kept their horses at  a gallop for a mile,  then
eased them up.

'There's no way they  can catch us!' Smhee  shouted through the thunder.  'We've
got too much of a head-start!'

Dawn came. The rain stopped. The clouds cleared away; the hot winter sun of  the
desert  rose. They  stopped at  the hut  where they  had slept,  and the  horses
rested, and they ate bread and cheese.

'Three more hours will  bring us within sight  of Sanctuary,' the fat  man said.
'We'll get your family aboard the Sailfish, and the Raggah can search for us  in
vain.'

He paused, then said, 'What do you intend to do about Eevroen?'

'Nothing,' she said. 'If he gets in my way I'll brain him again.'

He laughed  so much  he choked  on his  bread. When  he'd cleared his throat, he
said, 'You are some woman! Brave as the goddess makes them! And supple in  mind,
too! If I were not vowed to chastity,  I would woo you! I may be forty-five  and
fat, but...'

He stopped  to stare  down at  his hand.  His face  froze into  an expression of
horror.

Masha became equally paralysed.

A small purple spider was on Smhee's hand.

'Move slowly,' he said softly through rigid lips. 'I dare not move. Slap it when
you've got your hand within a few inches of it.'

She got up and took a step towards him. Where had the creature come from?  There
were no webs in the hut. Had it come from outside and crawled upon him?

She took another step, leaned over, and brought her hand slowly down at an angle
towards the thing. Its eyes were black and motionless, seemingly unaware of  her
presence.

Maybe it's not poisonous, she thought.

Suddenly, Smhee  screamed, and  he crushed  the spider  with his  other hand. He
leaped up then, brushing off the tiny body.

'It bit me! It bit me!'

The dark swelling had started.

'It's not one of the mage's creatures,' she said. 'Its venom may not be deadly.'

'It's the mage's,' he said. His face was white under the heavy pigment.

'It must have crawled into my bag. It couldn't have done it when we were on  the
way to the mage's rooms. It must have  got in when I opened the bag to  skin off
the tattoo.'

He howled. 'The mage has got his revenge!'

'You don't know that,' she  said, but she was certain  that it was as Smhee  had
said. She removed her  small belt-bag and carefully  poured out the jewels.  But
that was all it contained.

'It's beginning to  hurt,' Smhee said.  'I can make  it back to  the city. Benna
did, and  he was  bitten many  times. But  I know  these spiders.  I will die as
surely as he did, though I will take longer.

There is no antidote.'

He sat down,  and for a  while he rocked  back and forth,  eyes closed, moaning.
Then he said, 'Masha, there  is no sense in my  going on with you. But,  since I
have made it possible for you to be as  wealthy as a queen, I beg you to do  one
favour for me. If it is not too much to ask.'

'What is that?' she said.

'Take the jar  containing the tattooed  skin to Sharranpip.  And there tell  our
story to the highest priest of Weda Krizhtawn. He will pray for me to her, and a
great tombstone will  be erected for  me in the  courtyard of the  peacocks, and
pilgrims will come from all over Sharranpip and the islands around and will pray
for me. But if you don't want...'

Masha knelt and kissed him on the mouth. He felt cold.

She stood up and said, 'I promise you that I will do that. That, as you said, is
the least I can do.'

He smiled, though it cost him to do it.

'Good. Then I can die in peace. Go. May Weda Krizhtawn bless you.'

'But the Raggah ... they will torture you!'

'No. This bag contains a small vial of poison. They will find only a corpse.  If
they find me at all.'

Masha burst into tears, but she took the jar, and after kissing Smhee again, she
rode off, his horse trotting behind hers. At the top of the hill she stopped  to
look behind at the  hut. Far off, coming  swiftly, was a dark  mass. The Raggah.
She turned away and urged her horse into a gallop.



GODDESS
By David Drake

'By Savankala and the  Son!' Regli swore, 'why  can't she bear and  be done with
it? And why  does she demand  to see her  brother but won't  see me?' The  young
lord's sweat-stained  tunic looked  as if  it had  been slept  in. Indeed, Regli
would have slept  in it if  he had slept  any during the  two days he  had paced
outside the bedroom,  now couching room,  of his wife.  Regli's hands repeatedly
flexed the shank  of his riding  crop. There were  those - and  not all of  them
women - who would have said that agitation heightened -  Regli's already notably
good looks, but he had no mind for such nonsense now. Not with his heir at risk!

'Now, now,' said Doctor Mernorad, patting the silver-worked lapels of his  robe.
The older  man prided  himself as  much on  his ability  to see  both sides of a
question as he did on his skill  at physic - though neither ability seemed  much
valued today  in Regli's  townhouse. 'One  can't hurry  the gods,  you know. The
child  will be  born when  Sabellia says  it should  be. Any  attempt to  hasten
matters would  be sacrilege  as well  as foolishness.  Why, you  know there  are
some... I  don't know  what word  to use,  practitioners, who  use forceps  in a
delivery? Forceps  of metal!  It's disgusting.  I  tell  you. Prince  Kadakithis
makes a  great noise about smugglers and thieves; but if  he wanted to clean  up
a real   evil in  Sanctuary,  he'd   start  with   the  so-called   doctors  who
don't  have  proper connections with established temples.'

'Well, damn it,' Regli snapped, 'you've got a "proper connection" to the  Temple
of Sabellia in Ranke itself, and you  can't tell me why my wife's been  two days
in labour. And if any of those bitch-midwives who've stood shift in there  know'
- he  gestured towards  the closed  door -  'they sure  aren't telling anybody.'
Regli knuckled the fringe of blond whiskers sprouting on his jawbone. His wealth
and breeding had  made him a  person of some  importance even in  Ranke. Here in
Sanctuary, where he served as Master  of the Scrolls for the royal  governor, he
was even less accustomed to being balked. The fact that Fate, in the form of his
wife's  abnormally-prolonged labour,  was balking  him infuriated  Regli to  the
point that  he needed  to lash  out at  something. 'I  can't imagine why Samlane
insists on seeing no  one but midwives from  the Temple of Heqt,'  he continued,
snapping his riding crop at specks on the mosaic walls. 'That place has no  very
good reputation, I'm told. Not at all.'

'Well,  you have  to remember  that your  wife is  from Cirdon,'  said Mernorad
reasonably, keeping a wary eye on his patron's lash. 'Though they've been  forty
years under the Empire,  worship of the Trinity  hasn't really caught on  there.
I've investigated the matter, and these women do have proper midwives' licences.
There's altogether too much loose  talk among laymen about "this  priesthood" or
"that particular  healer" not  being competent.  I assure  you that  the medical
profession keeps very close watch on itself. The worst to be said on the  record
- the only place it counts - about the Temple of Heqt here in Sanctuary is  that
thirty  years ago  the chief  priest disappeared.  Unfortunate, of  course, but
nothing to discredit the temple.'

The doctor paused, absently puffing out  one cheek, then the other, so  that his
curly white sideburns  flared. 'Though I  do think,' he  added, 'that since  you
have engaged me anyway, that their midwives might consult with one of my,  well,
stature.'

The door  between the  morning room  and the  hall was  ajar. A  page in Regli's
livery of red and gold tapped the jamb deferentially. The two Rankans looked up,
past the servant to the heavier man beyond in the hall. 'My lord,' said the page
bowing, 'Samlor hil Samt.'

Samlor reached past the servant to swing the door fully open before Regli nodded
entry. He had  unpinned his dull  travelling cloak and  draped it over  his left
arm, close to his body where it almost hid the sheathed fighting knife. Northern
fashion, Samlor wore boots and breeches with a long-sleeved over-tunic  gathered
at the wrists. The garments were  plain and would have been a  nondescript brown
had they not been covered  with white road dust.  His sole jewellery was  a neck
thonged  silver  medallion stamped  with  the toad  face  of the  goddess  Heqt.
Samlor's broad face was deep red, the complexion of a man who will never tan but
who is rarely out of the sun.  He cleared his throat, rubbed his mouth  with the
back of his  big fist, and  said, 'My sister  sent for me.  She's in there,  the
servant says?' He gestured.

'Why yes,' said Regli, looking a little puzzled to find the quirt in his  hands.
The doctor was getting up from his chair. 'Why, you're much older, aren't  you?'
the lord continued inanely.

'Fourteen years,'  Samlor agreed  sourly, stepping  past the  two Rankans to the
bedroom door. He tossed his cloak over one of the ivory-inlaid tables along  the
wall. 'You'd have thought the folks  would have guessed something when the  five
between us were  stillborn, but no.  Hell, no ...  And much luck  the bitch ever
brought them.'

'I say!' Regli gasped at the stocky man's back. 'You're speaking of my wife!'

Samlor turned, his knuckles already poised to rap on the door panel. 'You had  a
choice,' he said. 'I'm the one  who was running caravans through the  mountains,
trying  to keep  the Noble  House of  Kodrix afloat  long enough  to marry  its
daughter well - and her slutting about so  that the folks had to go to Ranke  to
get offers from anybody but a brothel keeper. No wonder they drink.' He hammered
on the door.

Mernorad tugged the white-faced Regli back. 'Master Samlor,' the physician  said
sharply.

'It's Samlor, dammit!' the Cirdonian was shouting in response to a question from
within the  bedroom. 'I  didn't ride  500 miles  to stand  at a  damned doorway,
either.' He turned to Mernorad. 'Yes?' he asked.

The  physician pointed.  'Your weapon,'  he said.  'The lady  Sam-lane has  been
distraught. Not an uncommon  thing for women in  her condition, of course.  She,
ah,  attempted  to  have  her condition,  ah,  terminated  some  months ago  ...
Fortunately, we got word before ...  And even though she has since  been watched
at all times,  she, ah, with  a spoon ...  Well. I'd simply  rather that -things
like  your knife  - not  be where  the Lady  could snatch  them, lest  something
untoward occur...'

Within the bedroom, a bronze bar creaked  as it was lifted from the door  slots.
Samlor drew his long dagger and laid  it on an intaglio table. Only the  edge of
the steel winked. The hilt was of  a hard, pale wood, smooth but wrapped  with a
webbing of silver wire for a sure grip. The morning room had been decorated by a
former occupant.  In its  mosaic battle  scenes and  the weapons  crossed on its
walls, the room suited  Samlor's appearance far better  than it did that  of the
young Rankan lord who now owned it.

The door was opened inwards by a sour, grey-haired woman in temple garb. The air
that puffed from the bedroom was warm and cloying like the smell of an  overripe
peach. Two branches of the sextuple oil lamp within had been lighted, adding  to
the sunlight  seeping through  the stained  glass separating  the room  from the
inner court.

If the midwife looked harsh, then Samlane herself on the bed looked like  Death.
All the flesh of her  face and her long, white  hands seemed to have been  drawn
into the belly that now mounded  her linen wrapper. A silk coverlet  lay rumpled
at the foot of  the bed. 'Come in,  brother dear.' A spasm  rippled the wrapper.
Samlane's face froze, her mouth half  open. The spasm passed. 'I won't  keep you
long, Samlor,' she added through a false smile. 'Leah, wait outside.'

Midwife, husband, and doctor  all began to protest.  'Heqt's face, get out,  get
outV  Samlane  shrieked,  her  voice  rising even  higher  as  a  new  series of
contractions racked  her. Her  piercing fury  cut through  all objection. Samlor
closed the door  behind the midwife.  Those in the  morning room heard  the door
latched but not barred. Regli's house had been built for room-by-room defence in
the days when  bandits or a  mob would burst  into a dwelling  and strip it,  in
despite of anything the government might attempt.

The midwife stood, stiff and dour, with her back to the door. Regli ignored  her
and slashed  at the  wall again.  'In the  year I've  known her,  Samlane hasn't
mentioned her brother a dozen times -and each of those was a curse!' he said.

'You must remember,  this is a  trying time for  the lady, too,'  Mernorad said.
'With  her  parents, ah,  unable  to travel,  it's  natural that  she  wants her
brother-'

'Natural?' Regli shouted. 'It's my child she's bearing! My son, perhaps. What am
I doing out here?'

'What  would  you be  doing  in there?'  the  doctor observed,  tart  himself in
response to his patron's anger.

Before either could say more, the  door swung open, bumping the midwife.  Samlor
gestured with his thumb. 'She wants you to fix her pillows,' he said curtly.  He
picked up his knife and began walking across the morning room towards the  hall.
The midwife eeled back into the  bedroom, hiding all but a glimpse  of Samlane's
face. The lampstand beside the bed gave her flesh a yellow cast. The bar thudded
back in place almost as soon as the door closed.

Regli grabbed Samlor's arm. 'But what did she want?' he demanded.

Samlor shook his arm free. 'Ask her, if you think it's any of your business,' he
said. 'I'm in  no humour to  chatter.' Then he  was out of  the room and already
past the servant who  should have escorted him  down the staircase to  the front
door.

Mernorad blinked. 'Certainly a surly brute,' he said. 'Not at all fit for polite
company.'

For once it was Regli who was reasonable. 'Oh, that's to be expected,' he  said.
'In Cirdon, the nobility  always prided itself on  being useless - which  is why
Cirdon is part of the Rankan Empire  and not the reverse. It must have  bothered
him very much when he  had to go into trade  himself or starve with the  rest of
his family.' Regli cleared his throat, then patted his left palm with the quirt.
'That of course explains his hostility towards Samlane and the absurd-'

'Yes; quite absurd,' Mernorad agreed hastily.

'-absurd  charges  he  levelled  at  her,'  the  young  noble  continued.  'Just
bitterness, even though he himself had preserved her from the, oh, as he saw it,
lowering to which  he had been  subjected. Actually, I  have considerable mining
and  trading interests  myself, besides  my -  very real  - duties  here to  the
State.'

The diversion had settled Regli's mind only briefly. He resumed his pacing,  the
shuffle of his  slippers and his  occasional snappish comments  being almost the
only sounds in the morning room  for an hour. 'Do you hear  something?' Mernorad
said suddenly.

Regli froze, then ran to the  bedroom door. 'Samlane!' he shouted. '  Samlane /'
He gripped the bronze latch and screamed as his palm seared.

Acting with dreadful realization and more strength than was to be expected of  a
man of his age, Mernorad ripped a battle-axe from the staples holding it to  the
wall. He swung it against the door panel. The oak had charred to wafer thinness.
The  heavy  blade  splintered  through,  emitting  a  jet  of  oxygen  into  the
superheated bedroom.

The room exploded, blasting the door away  in a gout of fire and splinters.  The
flames hurled Mernorad against the far wall as a blazing husk before they curled
up to shatter the plastered ceiling.

The flame sucked back, giving Regli a momentary glimpse into the  fully-involved
room. The midwife had  crawled from the bed  almost back to the  door before she
died. The fire had arched her back  so that the knife wound in her  throat gaped
huge and red.

Samlane may have cut her own jugular as well, but too little remained of her  to
tell. She had apparently  soaked the bedding in  lamp oil and then  clutched the
open flame to her. All Regli really had to see, however, to drive him  screaming
from his house, was the boot knife. The wooden hilt was burned off, and the bare
tang poked upright from Samlane's distended belly.


Samlor  had asked  a street-boy  where the  Temple of  Heqt was.  The child  had
blinked, then brightened and  said, 'Oh - the  Black Spire!' Sitting on  a bench
outside a tavern across from the  temple, Samlor thought he understood why.  The
temple had been built  of grey limestone, its  walls set in a  square but roofed
with the usual hemispherical dome. The obelisk crowning the dome had  originally
commemorated the victories  of Alar hit  Aspar, a mercenary  general ofCirdonian
birth. Alar had done very well by his adopted city - and well enough for himself
in the process to be able to  endow public buildings as one form of  conspicuous
consumption. None of  Alar's boasts remained  visible through the  coating three
decades of wood and dung smoke had deposited on the spire. Still, to look at it,
the worst that  could be said  about the Temple  of Heqt was  that it was  ugly,
filthy, and in a bad district -  all of which were true of most  other buildings
in Sanctuary, so far as Samlor could tell.

As the caravan-master swigged his mug of blue John, an acolyte emerged from  the
main doorway  of the  temple. She  waved her  censer three  times and chanted an
evening prayer to the disinterested street before retreating back inside.

The tavern's doorway brightened as  the tapster stepped out carrying  a lantern.
'Move, buddy, these're for customers,' he said to the classically handsome young
man sitting on the other bench. The  youth stood but did not leave. The  tapster
tugged the bench a foot into the doorway, stepped onto it, and hung the  lantern
from a hook beneath the tavern's sign. The angle of the lantern limned in shadow
a rampant unicorn, its penis engorged and as large as the horn on its head.

Instead of returning to  the bench on which  he had been sitting,  the young man
sat down beside Samlor. 'Not much to look at, is it?' he said to the  Cirdonian,
nodding towards the temple.

'Nor  popular,  it seems,'  Samlor  agreed. He  eyed  the local  man  carefully,
wondering how much information  he could get from  him. 'Nobody's gone in  there
for an hour.'

'Not surprising,' the other man said  with a nod. 'They come mostly  after dark,
you know. And you wouldn't be able to see them from here anyway.'

'No?' said Samlor, sipping a little more of his clabbered milk. 'There's a  back
entrance?'

'Not just that,' said the local  man. 'There's a network of tunnels  beneath the
whole area. They - the worshippers - enter from inns or shops or tenements  from
blocks away. In Sanctuary, those who come to Heqt come secretly.'

Samlor's left hand toyed with his religious medallion. 'I'd heard that  before,'
he said,  'and I  don't figure  it. Heqt  brings the  Spring rains ... she's the
genetrix, not only  in Cirdon but  everywhere she's worshipped  at all -  except
Sanctuary. What happened here?'

'You're devout, I suppose?' asked the younger man, eyeing the disk with the face
of Heqt.

'Devout, devout,' said Samlor with a grimace. 'I run caravans, I'm not a priest.
Sure, maybe I spill a little drink to Heqt at meals ... without her, there'd  be
no world but desert, and I see enough desert already.'

The stranger's skin was so pale that it looked yellow now that most of the light
was from the  lamp above. 'Well,  they say there  was a shrine  to Dyareela here
before Alar tore it down to  build his temple. There wouldn't be  anything left,
of course, except perhaps    , the tunnels, and they may have been old when  the
city was built     ! on top  of them. Have  you heard there's  supposed to be  a
demon kept in the lower crypts?'

Samlor nodded curtly. 'I heard that.'

'A hairy, long-tailed, fang-snapping demon,' said the younger man with a  bright
smile. 'Pretty much of a joke  nowadays, of course. People don't really  believe
in that sort of thing. Still, the first priest of Heqt here disappeared. ... And
last year Alciros Foin  went into the temple  with ten hired bravos  to find his
wife. Nobody  saw the  bullies again,  but Foin  was out  on the street the next
morning. He was alive, even though every inch of skin had been flayed off him.'

Samlor finished his mug of blue John. 'Men could have done that,' he said.

'Would you  prefer to  meet men  like that  rather than  ... a demon?' asked the
local, smiling.  The two  men stared  in silence  at the  temple. 'Do you want a
drink?' Samlor asked abruptly.

'Not I,' said  the other. 'You  say that fellow  was looking for  his wife?' the
Cirdonian  pressed,  his  eyes  on  the  shadow-hidden  temple  and  not  on his
companion.

'That's right. Women often go through the tunnels, they say.

Fertility  rites. Some  say the  priests themselves  have more  to do  with any
increase in conceptions than the rites do - but what man can say what women  are
about?'

'And the demon?'

'Aiding the conceptions?'  said the local. Samlor had kept  his face turned from
the other so that he  would not have to see his smile, but  the smile  freighted
the  words themselves stickily.  'Perhaps,  but some  people will say  anything.
That would be a night for the ... suppliant, wouldn't it?'

Samlor turned and smiled back, baring his teeth like a cat eyeing a throat vein.
'Quite a night indeed,' he said.  'Are there any places known to  have entrances
to - that?' He gestured across the  dark street. 'Or is it just rumour?  Perhaps
this inn itself?'

'There's a hostel west of here a furlong,' said the youth. 'Near the Beef Market
- the Man in Motley. They say  there's a network beneath like worm tunnels,  not
really connected to each other. A man could enter one and walk for days  without
ever seeing another soul.'

Samlor shrugged. He stood and whistled for attention, then tossed his empty  mug
to the tapster behind the bar. 'Just curiosity,' he said to his companion. 'I've
never been in Sanctuary  before.' Samlor stepped into  the street, over a  drain
which held something long dead. When he glanced back, he saw the local man still
seated empty-handed on the bench. In profile against the light, his face had the
perfection of an ancient cameo.


Samlor wore boots and he was long familiar with dark nights and bad footing,  so
he did not bother to hire a  linkman. When he passed a detachment of  the Watch,
the Imperial officer in command stared  at the dagger the Cirdonian now  carried
bare in his hand. Still, Samlor looked to  be no more than he was, a sturdy  man
who would rather warn off robbers than  kill them, but who was willing and  able
to do either. I'll have to buy  another boot knife, Samlor thought; but for  the
time he'd make do, make do...

The Man in Motley  was a floor lower  than the four-storey tenements  around it.
The ground level was well lighted. Across the street behind a row of palings,  a
slave gang worked under lamps scraping dung from the cobbles of the Beef Market.
Tomorrow their load would be dried in  the sun for fuel. The public room  of the
inn was occupied by  a score of men,  mostly drovers in leather  and homespun. A
barmaid in her fifties was serving  a corner booth. As Samlor entered,  the host
thrust through the hangings behind the bar with a cask on his shoulder.

Samlor had  sheathed his  knife. He  nodded to  the brawny  innkeeper and ducked
beneath the bar himself. 'Hey!' cried the host.

'It's all right,' Samlor muttered. He slipped behind the hangings.

A stone staircase, lighted  halfway by an oil  lamp, led down into  the cellars.
Samlor followed it, taking the lamp with him. The floor beneath the public  room
was of dirt. A large trap, now closed and bolted, gave access to deliveries from
the street fronting  the inn. The  walls were lined  with racked bottles,  small
casks, and great forty-gallon fooders set on end. One of the fooders was of wood
so time-blackened as to look charred. Samlor rapped it with his knife hilt, then
compared the sound to the duller note of the tun beside it.

The stairs creaked as  the host descended. He  held a bung-starter in  one heavy
fist. 'Didn't they tell you  to go by the side?'  he rasped. 'D'ye think I  want
the name of  running a devil's  brothel?' He took  another step. 'By Ils and his
sisters, you'll remember the next time!'

Samlor's fingers moved on his knife hilt. He still held the point away from  the
innkeeper. 'We don't have a quarrel,' he said.

'Let's leave it at that.'

The host spat as he  reached the bottom of  the stairs. ' Sure,  I know you hot
pants folderols. Well,  when I'm done  with you, you  take my greetings  to your
pandering psalm-singers  and tell  them there'll  be no  more customers  through
here!'

'The  priests  share  their  privileges for  a  price?'  Samlor  said in  sudden
enlightenment. 'But I don't come for sex, friend.'

Whatever the tavern-keeper thought he understood, it frightened him as sight  of
the  dagger had  not. He  paused with  the bung-starter  half raised.  First he
swallowed. Then, with a guttural sound  of pure terror he flung the  mallet into
the shadows and fled  back up the stairs.  Samlor frowned, shrugged, and  turned
again to the fooder.

There was a catch disguised as a  knot, obvious enough if one knew something  of
the sort had to be  there. Pressed, the side of  the cask swung out to  reveal a
dry, dark tunnel sloping gently  downward. Samlor's tongue touched his  lips. It
was, after all, what he had been looking for. He picked up the lamp, now  burned
well down. He stepped into the tunnel, closing the door behind him.

The passage  twisted but  did not  branch. It  was carven  through dense, yellow
clay, shored at intervals with timbers too blackened for Samlor to identify  the
wood. There  were tiny  skitterings which  seemed to  come from  just beyond the
light. Samlor walked  slowly enough not  to lose the  lampflame, steadily enough
not to lose his nerve. Despite the disgrace of his vocation, Samlor was a  noble
of Cirdon; and there was no one else in his family to whom he could entrust this
responsibility.

There was a sound  behind him. Without turning,  Samlor lashed out with  a boot.
His hobnails ground into something warm and squealing where his eyes saw nothing
at all. He paused for a moment to finger his medallion of Heqt, then  continued.
The skittering preceded him at a greater distance.

When the  tunnel entered  a shelf  of rock  it broadened  suddenly into  a low
ceilinged, circular room. Samlor  paused. He held his  lamp out at arm's  length
and a little back of  his line of sight so  that the glare would not  blind him.
The room was huge and empty, pierced by a score of doorways. Each but the one at
which Samlor stood and one other was closed by an iron grate.

Samlor touched but did not draw  his double-edged dagger. 'I'll play your  silly
game,' he whispered. Taking short  steps, he walked around the  circumference of
the room and out the other open door. Another empty passage stretched beyond it.
Licking his lips again, Samlor followed the new tunnel.

The  double clang  of gratings  behind him  was not  really unexpected.  Samlor
waited, poised behind  his knife point,  but no one  came down the  stone boring
from either direction. No one and  no thing. Samlor resumed walking, the  tunnel
curving and perhaps descending slightly with each step. The stone was  beginning
to vibrate, a tremor that was too faint to be music.

The passage broadened again. This time the room so formed was not empty.  Samlor
spun to face what first seemed  a man standing beside the doorway.  The figure's
only movement was  the flicker of  the lampflame over  its metallic lustre.  The
Cirdonian moved  closer and  prodded the  empty torso.  It was  a racked suit of
mail, topped by a slot-fronted helmet.

Samlor scratched at a link of the  armour, urged by a suspicion that he  did not
consciously credit  even as  he attempted  to prove  it. The tightly-woven rings
appeared to be of verdigrised copper,  but the edge of Samlor's knife  could not
even mar  the apparent  corrosion. 'Blood  and balls,'  the caravan-master swore
under his breath.            -

He was  touching one  of the  two famed  suits of  armour forged by the sorcerer
Hast-ra-kodi in  the fire  of a  burning diamond.  Forged with  the help  of two
demons, legend had it;  and if that was  open to doubt by  a modern rationalist,
there could be no doubt at all that the indestructible armour had clothed heroes
for three of the five ages of the world.

Then, twelve hundred years ago, the  twin brothers Harash and Hakkad had  donned
the  mail and  marched against  the wizard-prince  Sterl. A  storm overtook  the
expedition in the mountains; and in the clear light of dawn, all had disappeared
- armour, brothers, and the three thousand men of their armament. Some said  the
earth had gaped; others, that  everything had been swallowed by  the still-wider
jaws of  airy monsters  whose teeth  flashed in  the lightning  and whose  backs
arched high as the thunderheads. Whatever the cause, the armour had vanished  in
that night. The reappearance of one  of the suits in this underground  room gave
Samlor his first tangible proof of  the power that slunk through the  skittering
passages.

From  the  opening across  the  room came  the  sound of  metal  scraping stone,
scraping  and  jingling. Samlor  backed  against the  wall,  sucking his  cheeks
hollow.

Into the chamber of living rock stepped the other suit of Hast-ra-kodi's armour.
This one fitted snugly  about a man whom  it utterly covered, creating  a figure
which had nothing human in it but its shape. The unknown metal glowed green, and
the sword the figure bore free in one gauntleted hand blazed like a green torch.

'Do  you come  to worship  Dyareela?' the  figure asked  in a  voice rusty  with
disuse.

Samlor set his lamp carefully on the flooring and sidled a pace away from it. 'I
worship Heqt,' he said,  fingering his medallion with  his left hand. 'And  some
others, perhaps. But not Dyareela.'

The figure laughed as  it took a step  forwards. 'I worshipped Heqt,  too. I was
her priest - until I came down into  the tunnels to purge them of the evil  they
held.' The tittering  laughter ricocheted about  the stone walls  like the sound
caged weasels  make. 'Dyareela  put a  penance on  me in  return for my life, my
life, my life ... I wear this armour. That will be your penance too,  Cirdonian:
put on the other suit.'

'Let me pass, priest,' Samlor said.  His hands were trembling. He clutched  them
together on his bosom. His fighting knife was sheathed.

'No priest,' the figure rasped, advancing.

'Man! Let me pass!'

'No man, not man,' said the thing, its blade rising and a flame that dimmed  the
oil lamp. 'They say  you keep your knife  sharp, suppliant - but  did gods forge
it? Can it shear the mesh of Hast-ra-kodi?'

Samlor palmed the bodkin-pointed push  dagger from his wrist sheath  and lunged,
his left foot thrusting  against the wall of  the chamber. Armour or  no armour,
the priest was not a man of war. Samlor's left hand blocked the sword arm  while
his  right slammed  the edgeless  dagger into  the figure's  chest. The  bodkin
slipped  through the  rings like  thread through  a needle's  eye. The  figure's
mailed fist caught the  Cirdonian and tore the  skin over his cheek.  Samlor had
already twisted his steel clear. He punched it home again through armour,  ribs,
and the spongy lungs within.

The figure staggered back. The sword clanged to the stone flooring. 'What-?'  it
began.  Something  slopped and  gurgled  within the  indestructible  helmet. The
dagger hilt was a dark tumour against the glowing mail. The figure groped vainly
at the knob hilt with both hands. 'What are you?' it asked in a whisper. 'You're
not a man,  not...' Muscles and  sinews loosened as  the brain controlling  them
starved for lack of oxygen. One knee buckled and the figure sprawled headlong on
the stone. The green glow seeped out  of it like blood from a rag,  staining the
flooring and dripping through it in turn.

'If you'd been a man in your time,' Samlor said harshly, 'I wouldn't have had to
be here now.'

He rolled the figure over to retrieve  his bodkin from the bone in which  it had
lodged. Haemorrhages from mouth and nose had smeared the front of the helmet. To
Samlor's surprise, the suit of mail now gaped open down the front. It was  ready
to be stripped off and worn by another. The body within was shrivelled, its skin
as white as that of the grubs which burrow beneath tree bark.

Samlor wiped  his edgeless  blade with  thumb and  forefinger. A  tiny streak of
blood was the only  sign that it had  slipped between metal lines  to do murder.
The Cirdonian  left both  suits of  armour in  the room.  They had not preserved
other wearers. Wizard mail and its  tricks were for those who could  control it,
and Samlor was all too conscious of his own humanity.

The passageway bent, then  formed a tee with  a narrow corridor a  hundred paces
long. The corridor was closed at either end by living rock. Its far wall was, by
contrast, artificial -  basalt hexagons a  little more than  a foot in  diameter
across the flats.  There was no  sign of a  doorway. Samlor remembered  the iron
grates clanging behind him what seemed  a lifetime ago. He wiped his  right palm
absently on his thigh.

The caravan-master walked slowly down and back the length of the corridor,  from
end to  end. The  basalt plaques  were indistinguishable  one from another. They
rose ten feet to a bare ceiling which still bore the tool-marks of its  cutting.
Samlor stared at the basalt from the head of the tee, aware that the oil in  his
lamp was low and that he had no way of replenishing it.

After a moment he looked down at the floor. Struck by a sudden notion, he opened
his fly and urinated at the base  of the wall. The stream splashed, then  rolled
steadily to the.right  down the invisible  trench worn by  decades of footsteps.
Thirty feet down the corridor the liquid stopped and pooled, slimed with patches
of dust that broke up the reflected lamplight.

Samlor examined with particular care the plaques just beyond the pool of  urine.
The seeming music  was louder here.  He set his  knife-point against one  of the
hexagons and  touched his  forehead to  the butt-cap.  Clearly and  triumphantly
rolled  the notes  of a  hydraulic organ,  played somewhere  in the  complex of
tunnels.  Samlor  sheathed  the  knife  again  and  sighted  along  the   stones
themselves, holding the light above his head. The polished surface of one waist
high plaque had been dulled 'by sweat  and wear. Samlor pressed it and the  next
hexagon over hinged out of the wall.

The plaque which had lifted was only  a hand's breadth thick, but what the  lamp
showed beyond it was a tunnel rather than a room: the remainder of the wall  was
of natural  basalt columns,  twenty feet  long and  lying on  their sides. To go
further, Samlor would have to crawl along a hole barely wide enough to pass  his
shoulders; and the other end was capped as well.

Samlor had spent his working life under  an open sky. He had thus far  borne the
realization of the tons of rock  above his head only by resolutely  not thinking
about it.  This rat-hole  left him  no choice  ... but  he would  go through  it
anyway. A man had to be able to control his mind, or he wasn't a man ...

The Cirdonian set the lamp  on the floor. It would  gutter out in a few  minutes
anyway. If he  had tried to  take it into  the tunnel with  him, it would almost
immediately have sucked  all the life  from the narrow  column of air  among the
hexagons. He drew his fighting knife and, holding both arms out in front of him,
wormed through the opening.  His body blocked all  but the least glimmer  of the
light behind him, and the black basalt drank even that.

Progress was  a matter  of groping  with boot  toes and  left palm, fighting the
friction of  his shoulders  and pelvis  scraping the  rock. Samlor  took shallow
breaths, but even so before he had crawled his own length the air became  stale.
It hugged him like a flabby blanket  as he inched forwards in the darkness.  The
music of the water organ was all about him.

The knife-point clinked  on the far  capstone. Samlor squirmed  a little nearer,
prayed to Heqt, and thrust outwards  with his left hand. The stone  swung aside.
Breathable air flooded the Cirdonian with the rush of organ music.

Too relieved to be concerned at what besides air might wait beyond the  opening,
Samlor struggled  out. He  caught himself  on his  knuckles and  left palm, then
scrabbled to get his  legs back under him.  He had crawled through  the straight
side of a semicircular room. Panels  in the arched ceiling fifty feet  above his
head lighted the room ochre. It was surely not dawn yet. Samlor realized he  had
no idea of what might be the ultimate source of the clear, rich light.

The hydraulic organ must still be  at a distance from this vaulted  chamber, but
the music made the  walls vibrate with its  intensity. There was erotic  love in
the higher notes,  and from the  lower register came  fear as deep  and black as
that which had settled in Samlor's belly hours before. Lust and mindless  hatred
lilted, rippling and bubbling through the sanctuary. Samlor's fist squeezed  his
dagger hilt  in frustration.  He was  only the  thickness of  the edge  short of
running amok in this  empty room. Then he  caught himself, breathed deeply,  and
sheathed the weapon until he had a use for it.

An archway in the  far wall suggested a  door. Samlor began walking  towards it,
aware of the scrapes the basalt had given him and the groin muscle he had pulled
while  wrestling with  the figure  in armour.  I'm not  as young  as I  was, he
thought. Then he smiled in  a way that meshed all  too well with the pattern  of
the music: after  all, he was  likely through with  the problems of  ageing very
soon.

The  sanctuary  was strewn  with  pillows and  thick  brocades. There  was  more
substantial furniture  also. Its  patterns were  unusual but  their function was
obvious in context.  Samlor had crossed  enough of the  world to have  seen most
things, but  his personal  tastes remained  simple. He  thought of Samlane; fury
lashed  him again.  This time  instead of  gripping the  knife, he  touched the
medallion  of Heqt.  He kicked  at a  rack of  switches. They  clattered into  a
construct  of ebony  with silken  tie-downs. Its  three hollow  levels could  be
adjusted towards one another by the pulleys and levers at one end of it.

Well, it  wasn't for  her, Samlor  thought savagely.  It was  for the house, the
honour of the Lords Kodrix of Cirdon. And perhaps -perhaps for Heqt. He'd  never
been a religious  man, always figured  it'd be best  if the gods  settled things
among themselves ... but  there were some things  that any man-Well, that  was a
lie. Not any man, just  Samlor hil Samt for sure  and probably no other fool  so
damned on the whole continent. Well, so be it then; he was a fool and a fanatic,
and before the night finished he'd  have spilled the blood of a  so-called demon
or died trying.

Because the illumination was from above, Samlor had noticed the bas reliefs only
as patterns of shadows along the  walls. The detail struck him as  he approached
the archway. He stopped and looked carefully.

The carvings  formed a  series of  panels running  in bands  across the polished
stone. The faces in each tableau  were modelled with a precise detail  that made
it likely they were portraits,  though none of the personages  were recognizable
to Samlor. He peered  up the curving walls  and saw the bands  continuing to the
roof  vaults. How  and when  they had  been carved  was beyond  estimation; the
caravan-master was not even sure he could identify the stone, creamy and mottled
but seemingly much harder than marble.

Time was of indeterminable importance.  Knowing that he might have  only minutes
to live,  Samlor began  following some  of the  series of  reliefs. One group of
carvings made clear the unguessed unity between the 'sorcerer' Hast-ra-kodi  and
the  'goddess'  Dyareela.  Samlor  stared  at  the  conclusion  of  the pattern,
swallowing hard  but not  speaking. He  was unutterably  glad he  had not donned
either suit of mail when he might have done so.

The panels reeked of bloodshed and repression. Kings and priests had stamped out
the worship  of Dyareela  a hundred  times in  a hundred  places. The  rites had
festered in the darkness, then burst out again - cancers metastasizing from  the
black lump  here in  the vaults  beneath Sanctuary.  A shrine  in the  wasteland
before it was a city; and even as a city, a brawling, stinking, leaderless  hive
where no one looked too hard for Evil's heart since Evil's limbs enveloped all.

Alar hil  Aspar -  a brash  outsider, a  reformer flushed  with his triumph over
brigandage - had at  last razed the fane  of Dyareela here. Instead  of salt, he
had sown the ruins  with a temple to  Heqt, the goddess of  his upbringing. Fool
that he was. Alar had thought that ended it.

Just above the archway, set  off from the courses around  it by a border of  ivy
leaves, was a cameo that caught  Samlor's eye as he returned sick  and exhausted
by what he had been looking at. A file of women led by a piper cavorted  through
the halls of a  palace. The women carried  small animals and icons  of obviously
more  than  symbolic significance,  but  it was  to  the piper's  features  that
Samlor's gaze was drawn. The Cirdonian swore mildly and reached up to touch  the
stone. It was smooth and cold to his fingertips.

So much fit. Enough, perhaps.

Samlor  stepped  through  the   double-hung  doors  closing  the   archway.  The
crossbowman waiting  beyond with  his eyes  on the  staircase screamed  and spun
around. The patterned screen that  would have concealed the ambush  from someone
descending the stairs was  open to the archway  - but judging from  the bowman's
panic, the mere sight of something approaching from the sanctuary would probably
have flushed him anyway.

Samlor had survived too many attacks  ever to be wholly unprepared for  another.
He lunged forwards,  shouting to further  disconcert the bowman.  The screen was
toppling  as the  bowman jerked  back from  the fingers  of Samlor's  left hand
thrusting for his eyes. The bowstring slapped and the quarrel spalled chips from
the archway before ricocheting  sideways through a swinging  door-panel. Samlor,
sprawled across his attacker's lower legs, slashed at the other's face with  the
knife he had finally  cleared. The bowman cried  out again and parried  with the
stock of his own weapon.  Samlor's edge thudded into the  wood like an axe in  a
firelog. Three of the bowman's fingers flew out into the room.

Unaware of  his maiming,  the bowman  tried to  club Samlor  with his weapon. It
slipped away from him.  He saw the blood-spouting  stumps of his left  hand, the
index finger itself half severed. Fright had made the bowman scream;  mutilation
now choked his voice with a rush of vomit.

Samlor squirmed forwards, pinning his attacker's torso with his own. He wrestled
the  crossbow out  of the  unresisting right  hand. There  was a  pouch of  iron
quarrels at the bowman's  belt, but Samlor ignored  them: they were on  the left
side and no longer a threat. The gagging man wore the scarlet and gold livery of
Regli's household.

The Cirdonian  glanced quickly  around the  room, seeing  nothing but  a helical
staircase reaching towards more lighted panels a hundred feet above. He  waggled
his knife a foot from his captive's  eyes, then brought the point of it  down on
the other's nose. 'You tried to kill me,' he said softly. 'Tell me why or you're
missing more than some fingers only.'

'Sabellia, Sabellia,'  the maimed  retainer moaned.  'You've ruined  me now, you
bastard.'

Samlor flicked his blade sideways, knowing that the droplet of blood that sprang
out would force the other's  eyes to cross on it.  They would fill with its  red
proximity.  'Talk to  me, little  man,' the  caravan-master said.  'Why are  you
here?'

The injured man swallowed  bile. 'My lord Regli,'  he said, closing his  eyes to
avoid the blood and the dagger point. 'He said you'd killed his wife. He sent us
all after you.'

Samlor laid  the dagger  point on  the other's  left eyesocket.  'How many?'  he
demanded.

'A dozen,' gabbled the other. 'All the guards and us coachmen besides.'

'The Watch?'

'Oh, gods, get that  away from my eye,'  the retainer moaned. 'I  almost shook-'
Samlor raised the blade  an inch. 'Not the  Watch,' the other went  on. 'My lord
wants to handle this himself for the, the scandal.'

'And where are the others?' the point dipped, brushed an eyelash, and rose again
harmlessly.

The wounded man was  rigid. He breathed through  his mouth, quick gasps  as if a
lungful of air would preserve him in the moment the knife-edge sawed through his
windpipe. 'They  all thought  you'd run  for Cirdon,'  he whispered. 'You'd left
your cloak behind. I slipped it away, took it to a S'danzo I know. She's a  liar
like all of them, but sometimes not... I  told her I'd pay her for the truth  of
where I'd find you, and  I'd pay her for nothing;  but I'd take a lie  out other
hide if  six of  my friends  had to  hold down  her blacksmith  buddy. She,  she
described where I'd meet you. I recognized it, I'd taken the Lady Samlane-'

'Here?' Samlor's voice  and his knife  both trembled. Death  slid closer to  the
room than it had been since the first slash and scramble of the fight.

'Lord,  lord,' the  captive pleaded.  'Only this  far. I  swear by  my mother's
bones!'

'Go on, then.' The knife did not move.

The other man  swallowed. 'That's all.  I waited here  - I didn't  tell anybody.
Lord Regli put a thousand royals on your head... and... and the S'danzo said I'd
live through the meeting. Oh gods, the slut, the slut...'

Samlor  smiled. 'She  hasn't lied  to you  yet,' he  said. The  smile was  gone,
replaced with a bleakness as cruel as  the face of a glacier. 'Listen,' he  went
on, rising to one  knee and pinning his  prisoner by psychological dominance  in
the stead of his body  weight. 'My sister asked me  for a knife. I told  her I'd
leave her one if she gave me a reason to.'

A spasm wracked the  Cirdonian's face. His prisoner  winced at the trembling  of
the dagger point. 'She  said the child wasn't  Regli's,' Samlor went on.  'Well,
who ever thought it would be, the  way she sniffed around? But she said  a demon
had got it on her  ... and that bothered even  her at the last. Being  used, she
said. Being used. She'd tried to have it aborted after she thought about  things
for a while, but a priest of Heqt was waiting with Regli in the shop where she'd
gone to buy  the drugs. After  that, she wasn't  without somebody watching  her,
asleep or awake. The  Temple of Heqt wanted  the child born. Samlane  said she'd
use the knife to end the child when  they pulled it from her ... and I  believed
that, though I knew she'd be in no shape for knifings just after she'd whelped.

'Seems she knew that too, but she  was more determined than even I'd have  given
her credit  for being.  She could  give a  lot of  folks points for stubborn, my
sister.'

Samlor shook himself, then gripped a  handful of the captive's tunic. He  ripped
the garment with his knife. 'What are you doing?' the retainer asked in concern.

'Tying you up. Somebody'11 find  you here in time. I'm  going to do what I  came
here for,  and when  it's done  I'll leave  Sanctuary. If  I've got  that option
still.'

Sweat was  washing streaks  in the  blood-flecks on  the captive's  face. 'Sweet
goddess, don't do that,' he begged. 'Not tied, not -that. You haven't been  here
when ... others were here. You-' the injured man wiped his lips with his tongue.
He closed his eyes. 'Kill  me yourself, if you must,'  he said so softly it  was
almost a matter for lip-reading to understand him. 'Don't leave me here.'

Samlor stood. His left hand was  clenched, his right holding the dagger  pointed
down at a slight angle. 'Stand  up,' he ordered. Regli's man obeyed,  wide-eyed.
He braced his back  against the wall, holding  his left hand at  shoulder height
but refusing to look at its ruin. The severed arteries had pinched off. Movement
had dislodged some of the scabs, but the blood only oozed instead of spurting as
it had initially. 'Tell Regli that I'm mending my family's honour in my way,  as
my sister seems to  have done in hers,'  Samlor said. 'But don't  tell him where
you found me -  or how. If you  want to leave here  now, you'll swear that.'  'I
swear!' the other babbled. 'By anything you please!' The caravan-master's  smile
flickered again. 'Did you ever kill anyone, boy?' he asked conversationally.

'I was a coachman,' the other said with a nervous frown. 'I - I mean ... no.'

'Once I pulled a man apart with hot pincers,' Samlor continued quietly. 'He  was
headman of a tribe that had taken our toll payment but still tried to cut out  a
couple of horses  from the back  of our train.  I slipped into  the village that
night, jerked the chief out of his  bed, and brought him back to the  laager. In
the  morning I  fixed him  as a  display for  the rest.'  The Cirdonian  reached
forwards and  wiped his  dagger clean  on the  sleeve of  the other man's tunic.
'Don't go back on your word to me, friend,' he said.

Regli's man  edged to  the helical  staircase. As  he mounted  each of the first
dozen steps, he looked back over his shoulder at the Cirdonian. When the pursuit
or thrown knife did not come as  he had feared or expected, the retainer  ran up
the next twenty steps  without pausing. He looked  down from that elevation  and
said, 'One thing, master.'       .

'Say it,' responded Samlor.

'They opened the Lady Samlane to give the child separate burial.'

'Yes?'

'And it didn't look to be demon spawn, as you say,' Regli's man called. 'It  was
a perfect little boy. Except that your knife was through its skull.'

Samlor began to  climb the steps,  ignoring the scrabbling  slippers of the  man
above  him on  the twisting  staircase. The  door at  the top  thudded, leaving
nothing of  the hapless  ambusher but  splotches of  his blood  on the  railing.
Should have stuck to  his horses, Samlor thought.  He laughed aloud, well  aware
that the epitaph  probably applied to  himself as well.  Still, he had  a better
notion than that poor fool of a coachman of what he was getting into ...  though
the gods all knew how slight were his chances of getting out of it alive. If the
fellow he was looking for was  a real magician, rather than someone  like Samlor
himself who had  learned a few  spells while knocking  around the world,  it was
over for sure.

The door  at the  top of  the stairs  pivoted outward.  Samlor tested  it with a
fingertip, then paused to steady his heart and breathing. As he stood there, his
left hand sought the toad-faced medallion.

The dagger in his right hand pointed down, threatening nothing at the moment but
- ready.

He pushed the door open.

On the other side, the secret opening  was only a wall panel. Its frescoes  were
geometric and in no way different from those of the rest of the temple  hallway.
To the left, the hall led to an outside door heavily banded with iron. From  his
livery and  the mutilation  of his  outflung left  hand, the  coachman could  be
recognized where he lay. The rest of the retainer appeared to have been  razored
into gobbets of flesh and bone, no  other one of them as large as  what remained
of the left hand.  Under the circumstances, Samlor  had no sympathy to  waste on
the corpse.

The Cirdonian sighed and turned to  the right, stepping through the hangings  of
brass beads into the sanctuary of  Heqt. The figure he expected was  waiting for
him.

Soft, grey dawnlight crept  through hidden slits in  the dome. Mirrors had  been
designed to light the grinning, gilded toad-face of Heqt at the top of the  dome
beneath the spire. Instead, the light was directed downwards onto the figure  on
the floral mosaic in the centre of  the great room. The hair of the  waiting man
glowed like burning wire. 'Did the  night keep you well, friend?' Samlor  called
as he stepped forwards.

'Well,' agreed the other  with a nod. There  was no sign of  the regular priests
and acolytes of Heqt. The room brightened  as if the light fed on the  beauty of
the waiting man. 'As I see she kept you, Champion of Heqt.' -

'No champion,'  Samlor said,  taking another  step as  casual as  the long knife
dangling from his right hand. 'Just a  man looking for the demon who caused  his
sister's death.  I didn't  have to  look any  farther than  the bench across the
street last night, did I?'

The other's voice was a rich tenor. It had a vibrancy that had been missing when
he and  Samlor had  talked of  Heqt and  Dyareela the  night before. 'Heqt keeps
sending her champions, and I  ... I deal with them.  You met the first of  them,
the priest?'

'I came looking for a demon,' the Cirdonian said, walking very slowly, 'and  all
it was was a poor madman who had convinced himself that he was a god.'

'I am Dyareela.'

'You're a man who  saw an old carving  down below that looked  like him,' Samlor
said. 'That worked on your mind, and you worked on other people's minds. ...  My
sister, now, she was convinced her child  would look like a man but be  a demon.
She killed it in her  womb. The only way that  she'd have been able to  kill it,
because they'd never have  let her near it,  Regli's heir, and her  having tried
abortion. But such a waste, because it was just a child, only a madman's child.'

The sun-crowned man gripped the throat  of his white tunic and ripped  downwards
with  unexpected  strength. 'I  am  Dyareela,' it  said.  Its right  breast  was
pendulous, noticeably  larger than  the left.  The male  genitals were of normal
size, flaccid, hiding the vulva that  must lie behind them. 'The one  there,' it
said, gesturing towards the wall beyond which the coachman lay, 'came to my fane
to shed blood without  my leave.' The naked  figure giggled. 'Perhaps I'll  have
you wash in his  blood. Champion,' it said.  'Perhaps that will be  the start of
your penance.'

'A  mad  little hermaphrodite  who  knows a  spell  or two,'  Samlor  said. 'But
there'll be no  penance for any  again from you,  little one. You're  fey, and I
know a spell for your sort. She  wasn't much, but I'll have your heart  for what
you led my sister to.'

'Will you conjure  me by Heqt,  then. Champion?' asked  the other with  its arms
spread in welcome and  laughter in its liquid  voice. 'Her temple is  my temple,
her  servants are  my servants  ... the  blood other  champions is  mine for  a
sacrifice!'

Samlor was  twenty feet  away, a  full turn  and half  a turn.  He clutched  his
medallion left-handed,  hoping it  would give  him enough  time to  complete his
spell. 'Do I look like a priest to talk about gods?' he said. 'Watch my  dagger,
madman.'

The other smiled, waiting  as Samlor cocked the  heavy blade. It caught  a stray
beam of sunlight. The double edge flashed black dawn.

		'By the Earth that bore this,'

Samlor  cried,

		'and the Mind that gave it  shape;
		 By the rown of this hilt and the silver wire that laps it;
		 By the cold iron of this blade
			and by the white-hot flames it flowed from;
		 By the blood it has drunk and the souls it has eaten
		 					- know thy hour'


Samlor hurled the dagger.  It glinted as it  rotated. The blade was  point-first
and a hand's  breadth from the  smiling face when  it exploded in  a flash and a
thunderclap  that  shook  the  city.  The  concussion  hurled  Samlor backwards,
bleeding from  the nose  and ears.  The air  was dense  with flecks of paint and
plaster from  the frescoed  ceiling. Dyareela  stood with  the same  smile, arms
lifting  in triumph,  lips opening  further in  throaty laughter.  'Mine for  a
sacrifice!'

A webbing of tiny cracks was spreading  from the centre of the dome high  above.
Samlor staggered to his feet, choking on  dust and knowing that if he was  lucky
he was about to die.

Heqt's gilded bronze head, backed by the limestone spire, plunged down from  the
ceiling.  It struck  Dyareela's upturned  face like  a two-hundred-ton  crossbow
bolt. The  floor beneath  disintegrated. The  limestone column  scarcely slowed,
hurtling out of sight as the earth itself shuddered to the impact.

Samlor  lost his  footing in  the remains  of Regli's  coachman. An  earth-shock
pitched him  forwards against  the door  panel. It  was unlocked.  The Cirdonian
lunged out into the  street as the shattered  dome followed its pinnacle  into a
cavern that gaped with a sound like the lowest note of an organ played by gods.

Samlor  sprawled in  the muddy  street. All  around him  men were  shouting and
pointing.  The Cirdonian  rolled onto  his back  and looked  at the  collapsing
temple.

Above the ruins rose  a pall of shining  dust. More than imagination  shaped the
cloud into the head of a toad.



THE FRUIT OF ENLIBAR
by Lynn Abbey

The hillside  groves of  orange trees  were all  that remained  of the legendary
glory of Enlibar. Humbled descendants of the rulers of an empire dwarfing  Ilsig
or Ranke eked out their livings  among the gnarled, ancient trees. They  wrapped
each  unripe fruit  in leaves  for the  long caravan  journey and  wrapped  each
harvest in a fresh retelling of their legends. By shrewd storytelling these once
proud families survived, second only to  the S'danzo in their ability to  create
mystery, but like the S'danzo crones they flavoured their legends with truth and
kept the sceptics at bay.

The oranges of Enlibar made  their way to Sanctuary  once a year. When  the fist
sized fruits were nearly ripe Haakon, the sweetmeat vendor of the bazaar,  would
fill his  cart and  hawk oranges  in the  town as  well as  in the stalls of the
bazaar. During i  those few days he  would make enough money to buy expensive  |
trinkets for his  wife and children,  another year's lodgings  for his mistress,
and have enough gold left to take to Gonfred, the only honest goldsmith in town.

The value of each orange was such that Haakon would ignore the unwritten code of
the bazaar and  reserve the best  of his limited  supply for his  patrons at the
Governor's Palace. It had happened, however, that two of the precious fruits had
been bruised. Haakon decided not to sell that pair at all but to share them with
his friends the bazaar-smith, Dubro, and his youngwife, the half-S'danzo Illyra.

He scored the peel deftly with  an inlaid silver tool meant especially  for this
one purpose.  When his  fingers moved  away the  pebbly rind  fell back from the
deep-coloured pulp  and Illyra  gasped with  delight. She  took one  of the pulp
sections and drizzled  the juice onto  the back of  her hand, then  lapped it up
with the tip of her tongue: the  mannerly way to savour the delicate flavour  of
the blood-red juice.

'These are the best; better than last year's,' she exclaimed with a smile.  'You
say that every year, Illyra. Time dulls your memory; the taste brings it  back.'
Haakon sucked the  juice off his  hand with less  delicacy: his lips  showed the
Stain of Enlibar.  'And, speaking of  time dulling your  memory - Dubro,  do you
recall, about fifteen years back, a death-pale boy with straw hair and wild eyes
running about the town?'

Haakon watched  as Dubro  closed his  eyes and  sank back  in thought. The smith
would  have  been  a raw  youth  then  himself, but  he  had  always been  slow,
deliberate, and  utterly reliable  in his  judgements. Illyra  would have been a
skirt-clinging toddler that long ago so Haakon did not think to ask her, nor  to
glance her way while he awaited Dubro's reply. Had he done so he would have seen
her tremble and a blood-red drop  of juice disappear into the fine  dust beneath
her chair.

'Yes,' Dubro said without opening his eyes, 'I remember one as that: quiet, pale
... nasty. Lived a few years with the garrison, then disappeared.'

'Would you know him again  after all this time?'

'Nay.  He was that sort of  lad who looks childish until he becomes a man,  then
one never sees the child in  his face again.'

'Would you reckon "Walegrin" to be his name?* Ignored, beside them, Illyra   bit
down  on her  tongue  and  stifled sudden  panic  before  it became apparent.

'It might be ... nay, I could not be sure. I doubt as I ever spoke to the lad by
name.' Haakon shrugged  as if the  questions had been  idle conversation. Illyra
ate her  remaining share  of the  oranges, then  went into  the ramshackle stall
where she lit three cones of incense before returning to the men with a ewer  of
water.

'Illyra, I've just asked your husband if  he'd come with me to the Palace.  I've
got two sacks of oranges to deliver for the Prince and another set of arms would
make the work easier. But he says he won't leave you here alone.'

Illyra hesitated. The memories Haakon had aroused were still fresh in her  mind,
but all  that had  been fifteen  years ago,  as he  had said.  She stared at the
clouded-over sky.

'No,  there'll be  no problem.  It may  rain today  arid, anyway,  you've taken
everyone's money this week with your oranges,' she said with forced brightness.

'Well then, you  see, Dubro -  there's no problem.  Bank the fires  and we'll be
off. I'll have you back sweating again before the first raindrops fall.'

Illyra watched them leave.  Fear filled the forge,  fear left over from  a dimly
remembered  childhood. Visions  she had  shared with  no one,  not even  Dubro.
Visions not even  the S'danzo gifts  could resolve into  truth or illusion.  She
caught up her curly black hair with a set of combs and went back inside.

When the bed  was concealed under  layers of gaudy,  bright cloth and  her youth
under layers  of kohl,  Illyra was  ready to  greet the  townsfolk. She  had not
exaggerated her complaints about the oranges. It was just as well that  Haakon's
supply was diminishing. For two days now  she had had no querents until late  in
the day. Lonely and bored she  watched the incense smoke curl into  the darkness
of the room, losing herself in its endless variations.

'Illyra?'

A man drew back the heavy cloth curtain. Illyra did not recognize his voice. His
silhouette revealed only that he was as tall as Dubro, though not as broad.

'Illyra?-1 was told I'd find Illyra, the crone, here.'

She froze. Any querent might have cause to resent a S'danzo prophecy, regardless
of its truth, and plot revenge  against the seeress. Only recently she  had been
threatened by  a man  in the  red-and-gold livery  of the  Palace. Her hand slid
under the folds of  the tablecloth and eased  a tiny dagger loose  from a sheath
nailed to the table leg.                                     -

'What do you want?' She held her voice steady; greeting a paying querent  rather
than a thug.

'To talk with you. May I come in?' He paused, waiting for a reply and when there
was  none continued,  'You seem  unduly suspicious,  S'danzo. Do  you have  many
enemies here. Little Sister?'

He stepped into the room and let the cloth fall behind him. Illyra's dagger slid
silently from her hand into the folds of her  skirts.

'Walegrin.'

'You remember so quickly? Then you did inherit her gift?'

'Yes, I inherited  it, but this morning I learned that you had

returned to Sanctuary.'

'Three weeks past. It has not changed  at all except, perhaps, for the worse.  I
had hoped to complete my business without disturbing you but I have  encountered
complications, and I doubt any of the other S'danzo would help me.'

'The S'danzo will never forget.'

Walegrin eased his bulk  into one of Dubro's  chairs. Light from the  candelabra
fell on his face.  He endured the exposure,  though as Dubro had  guessed, there
was no trace of youth  left in his features. He  was tall and pale, lean  in the
way of powerful men  whose gentler tissues  have boiled away.  His hair was  sun
bleached to brittle straw, confined by  four thick braids and a bronze  circlet.
Even for Sanctuary he cut an exotic, barbarian figure.

'Are you satisfied?' he asked when her  gaze returned to the velvet in front  of
her.

'You have become very much like him,' she answered slowly. 'I think not,  'Lyra.
My tastes, anyway, do not run as our  father's did - so put aside your fears  on
that account. I've come for your  help. True S'danzo help, as your  mother could
have given me. I could pay you in gold, but I have other items which might tempt
you more.' He reached under his  bronze-studded leather kilt to produce a  suede
pouch of some weight which he set, unopened, on the table. She began to open  it
when he leaned forwards and grasped her wrist tightly.

'It wasn't me, 'Lyra. I wasn't there that night. I ran away, just like you did.'

His voice carried Illyra back those  fifteen years sweeping the doubts from  her
memories. 'I  was a  child then,  Walegrin. A  little child,  no more than four.
Where could I have run to?'

He released her wrist and sat back  in the chair. Illyra emptied the pouch  onto
her table. She recognized only a few  of the beads and bracelets, but enough  to
realize that  she gazed  upon all  of her  mother's jewellery.  She picked  up a
string of blue glass beads strung on a creamy braided silk.

'These have been  restrung,' she said  simply. Walegrin nodded.  'Blood rots the
silk and stinks to the gods. I had no choice. All the others are as they were.'

Illyra let the beads fall back into the pile. He had known how to tempt her. The
entire heap was not worth a single  gold piece, but no storehouse of gold  could
have been more valuable to her.

'Well, then, what do you want from me?'

He  pushed the  trinkets aside  and from  another pouch  produced a  palm-sized
pottery shard which he placed gently on the velvet.

'Tell me everything about that: where the rest of the tablet is; how it came  to
be broken; what the symbols mean - everything!'

There was nothing  in the jagged  fragment that justified  the change that  came
over Walegrin as  he spoke of  it. Illyra saw  a piece of  common orange pottery
with a crowded black design set under the glaze; the sort of ware that could  be
found in any household of the Empire. Even with her S'danzo gifts focused on the
shard it  remained stubbornly  common. Illyra  looked at  Wale-grin's icy  green
eyes, his thought-protruded brows, the set  of his chin atop the studded  greave
on his forearm, and thought better of telling him what she actually saw.

'Its secrets are locked deeply within  it. To a casual glance its  disguises are
perfect. Only prolonged examination will  draw its secrets out.' She  placed the
shard back on the table.

'How long?'

'It would be hard  to say. The gift  is strengthened by symbolic  cycles. It may
take until the cycle of the shard coincides...'

'I know the S'danzo!  I was there  with you and  your mother -don't  play bazaar
games with me. Little Sister. I know too much.'

Illyra sat back  on her bench.  The dagger in  her skirts clunked  to the floor.
Walegrin bent over  to pick it  up. He turned  it over in  his hands and without
warning thrust it through the velvet into the table. Then, with his palm against
the smooth of the blade, he bent it back until the hilt touched the table.  When
he removed his hand the knife remained bent.

'Cheap steel. Modern stuff;  death to the one  who relies on it,'  he explained,
drawing a sleek  knife from within  the greave. He  placed the dark-steel  blade
with the beads and bracelets. 'Now, tell me about my pottery.'

'No bazaar-games. If I didn't know from looking at you, I'd say it was a  broken
piece  of  'cotta.  You've  had  it  a  long  time.  It  shows  nothing  but its
associations with you. I believe it is more than that, or you wouldn't be  here.
You know about  the S'danzo  and what  you call  "bazaar-games", but  it's true 
right now I see nothing; later I might. There are ways to strengthen the  vision
- I'll try them.'

He flipped a gold coin onto the table. 'Get what you'll need.'

'Only  my  cards,'  she answered,  flustered by  his  gesture.  'Get them!'  he
ordered  without picking up the coin. She removed the worn deck from the  depths
of  her blouse  and set  the shard  atop them  while she  lit more  candles and
incense. She allowed  Walegrin  to cut  the pack into  three piles, then  turned
over the topmost card of each pile.

Three of  Flames: a  tunnel running  from light  to darkness  with three  candle
sconces along the way.

The Forest: primeval, gnarled trunks; green canopy; living twilight.

Seven of Ore: red clay; the potter with his wheel and kiln. Illyra stared at the
images, losing herself in them  without finding harmony or direction.  The Flame
card was  pivotal, but  the array  would not  yield its  perspective to her; the
Forest,  symbolic of  the wisdom  of the  ages, seemed  unlikely as  either her
brother's goal or origin;  and the Seven must  mean more than was  obvious. But,
was the Ore-card appearing in its creativity aspect? Or was red clay the omen of
bloodletting, as was so  often true when the  card appeared in a  Sanctuary-cast
array?

'I still do not see  enough. Bazaar-games or not, this  is not the time to  scry
this thing.'

'I'll come again after sundown - that would be a better time, wouldn't it?  I've
no garrison duties until after sunrise tomorrow.'

'For the cards,  yes, of course,  but Dubro will  have banked the  forge for the
night by  then, and  I do  not want  to involve  him in  this.' Walegrin  nodded
without argument. 'I  understand. I'll come  by at midnight.  He should be  long
asleep by then, unless you keep him awake.' Illyra sensed it would be useless to
argue. She watched silently as he swept the pile of baubles, the knife, and  the
shard into one pouch,  wincing slightly as he  dribbled the last beads  from her
sight.

'As is your custom, payment will not be made until the question is answered.'

Illyra nodded. Walegrin had spent many years around her mother learning many  of
the S'danzo disciplines and rousing his father's explosive jealousy. The leather
webbing of his  kilt creaked as  he stood up.  The moment for  farewell came and
passed. He left the stall in silence.


A path cleared when Walegrin strode through a crowd. He noticed it here, in this
bazaar  where  his memories  were  of scrambling  through  the aisles,  taunted,
cursed, fighting,  and thieving.  In any  other place  he accepted the deference
except here, which had once been his home for a while.

One of the few  men in the throng  who could match his  height, a dark man  in a
smith's apron,  blocked his  way a  moment. Walegrin  studied him  obliquely and
guessed he was Dubro. He had  seen the smith's short aquiline companion  several
times in  other roles  about the  town without  learning the  man's true name or
calling; they each glanced to one side to avoid a chance meeting.

At the entrance to the bazaar, a tumble-down set of columns still showing traces
of the Ilsig kings who had them built,  a man crept out of the shadows and  fell
in step  beside Walegrin.  Though this  second had  the manner  and dress of the
city-born, his face was like Walegrin's: lean, hard, and parched.

'What have you learned, Thrusher?' Walegrin began, without looking down.

'That man Downwind who claimed to read such things...'

'Yes?'

'Runo went down to meet with him, as  you were told. When he did not return  for
duty this morning Malm and  I went to look for  him. We found them both  ... and
these.' He handed his captain two small copper coins.

Walegrin turned them over in his palm,  then threw them far ' into the  harbour.
'I'll take care of this  myself. Tell the others we  will have a visitor at  the
garrison this evening - a woman.'

'Yes, captain,' Thrusher responded, a  surprised grin making its way  across his
jaw. 'Shall I send the men away?'

'No,  set them  as guards.  Nothing is  going well.  Each time  we have  set a
rendezvous something has gone wrong. At first it was petty nuisance, now Runo is
dead. I will not take chances  in this city above all others.  And, Thrusher...'
Walegrin caught his man by the elbow, 'Thrusher, this woman is S'danzo, my half
sister. See that the men understand this.'

'They will understand, we all have families somewhere.'

Walegrin grimaced and  Thrusher understood that  his commander had  not suddenly
weakened to admit family concerns.

'We have need of the S'danzo? Surely there are more reliable seers in  Sanctuary
than  scrounging  the  aisles  of  the  bazaar.  Our  gold  is  good  and nearly
limitless.' Thrusher, like many men in the Ranken Empire, considered the S'danzo
best suited to resolving love triangles among house-servants.

'We have need of this one.'

Thrusher nodded and  oozed back into  the shadows as  deftly as he  had emerged.
Walegrin  waited  until he  was  alone on  the  filthy streets  before  changing
direction and striding, shoulders set and fists balled, into the tangled streets
of the Maze.

The whores of  the Maze were  a special breed  unwelcomed in the  great pleasure
houses beyond the city walls. Their  embrace included a poison dagger and  their
nightly fee was all the wealth that could be removed from a man's person. A knot
of  these  women  clung  to  the  doorway  of  the  Vulgar  Unicorn,  the Maze's
approximation  to  Town  Hall,  but  they  stepped  aside  meekly  when Walegrin
approached. Survival in the Maze depended upon careful selection of the target.

An aura of dark foul air enveloped  Walegrin as he stepped down into the  sunken
room. A  moment's quiet  passed over  the other  guests, as  it always  did when
someone entered. A Hell Hound, personal  puritan of the prince, could shut  down
conversation  for  the duration  of  his visit,  but  a garrison  officer,  even
Walegrin, was assumed to have legitimate business and was ignored with the  same
slit-eyed wariness the regulars accorded each other.

The itinerant storyteller,  Hakiem, occupied the  bench Walegrin preferred.  The
heavy-lidded little man  was wilier than  most suspected. Clutching  his leather
mug of small ale tenderly, he had selected one of the few locations in the  room
that provided a good view of all the exits, public and private. Walegrin stepped
forwards, intending to intimidate the weasel from his perch, but thought  better
of the move. His affairs in the Maze demanded discretion, not reckless bullying.

From a lesser location  he signalled the bartender.  No honest wench would  work
the Unicorn so  Buboe himself brought  the foaming mug,  then returned a  moment
later with  one of  the Enii-bar  oranges he  had arranged  behind the  counter.
Walegrin broke the peel with his thumbnail; the red juice ran through the ridges
of the peel forming patterns not unlike those on his pottery shard.

A one-armed beggar with a scarred  face and a pendulant, cloudy eye  sidled into
the Unicorn, careful to  avoid the disapproving glance  of Buboe. As the  ragged
creature moved from table to table collecting copper pittance from the disturbed
patrons, Walegrin noted the tightly wound tunic under his rags and knew the left
arm was as good as  the one that was snapping  up the coins. Likewise, the  scar
was a self-induced disfigurement and the yellow rheum running down his cheek the
result of seeds placed  under his eyelids. The  beggar announced his arrival  at
Walegrin's table with a tortured wheeze. Without looking up Walegrin tossed  him
a silver coin. He had run with the beggars himself and seen their cunning deceit
become crippling reality many times too often.

Buboe split the  last accessible louse  in his copious  beard between his  grimy
fingernails, looked up, and noticed the  beggar, whom he threw into the  street.
He shuffled a few more mugs of beer  to his patrons, then returned to the  never
ending task of chasing lice.

The door opened again, admitting another who, like Walegrin, was in the Maze  on
business. Walegrin drew a small circle in the air with a finger and the newcomer
hastened to his table.

'My man  was slain  last night  by following  your suggestions.' Walegrin stared
directly into the newcomer's eyes as he spoke.

'So I've  heard, and  the Enlibrite  potter as  well. I've  rushed over  here to
assure you that it was not my  doing (though I knew you would suspect  me). Why,
Walegrin, even if I did want to  double-cross you (and I doubly assure you  that
such thoughts never go through my mind) I'd hardly have killed the Enlibrite  as
well, would I?'

Walegrin grunted. Who was to say what a man of Sanctuary might do to achieve his
goals? But the information broker was likely to be telling the truth. He had  an
air of distracted indignation about him  that a liar would not think  to affect.
And  if  he were  truthful  then, like  as  not, Runo  had  been the  victim  of
coincidental outrage. The coins showed that robbery was not the motive.  Perhaps
the potter had enemies. Walegrin reminded himself to enter the double slaying in
the garrison  roster where,  in due  course, it  might be  investigated when the
dozens preceding it had been disposed of.

'Still,  once  again, I  have  received no  information.  I will  still  make no
payment.' Walegrin casually spun the beer mug  from one hand to the other as  he
spoke, concealing the import of his conversation from prying eyes.

'There're others who can bait your  bear: Markmor, Enas Yorl, even Lythande,  if
the price is right. Think of this only as a delay, my friend, not failure.'

'No! The omens here grow bad. Three times you've tried and failed to get me what
I require. I conclude my business with you.' The information broker survived  by
knowing when to  cut his losses.  Nodding politely, he  left Walegrin without  a
word and left the Unicorn before Buboe had thought to get his order.

Walegrin leaned  back on  his stool,  hands clenched  behind his  head, his eyes
alert for movement but  his thoughts wandering. The  death of Runo had  affected
him deeply,, not  because the man  was a good  soldier and long-time  companion,
though he had  been both, but  because the death  had demonstrated the  enduring
power of  the S'danzo  curse on  his family.  Fifteen years  before, the S'danzo
community had decreed that all things  meaningful to his father should be  taken
away or  destroyed while  the man  looked helplessly  on. For  good measure  the
crones had extended the curse for  five generations. Walegrin was the first.  He
dreaded that day when his path crossed with some forgotten child of his own  who
would bear him no better will than he bore his own ignominious sire.

It had been sheer  madness to return to  Sanctuary, to the origin  of the curse,
despite the  assurances of  the Purple  Mage's protection.  Madness! The S'danzo
felt him coming. The Purple Mage, the one person Walegrin trusted to unravel the
spell, had disappeared long before he and  his men arrived in town. And now  the
Enlibrite potter and Runo were dead by some unknown hand. How much longer  could
he  afford to  stay? True,  there were  many magicians  here, and  any could  be
bought, but they all  had their petty loyalties.  If they could reconstruct  the
shard's inscription, they certainly could not be trusted to keep quiet about it.
If Illyra did not provide the answers at midnight, Walegrin resolved to take his
men somewhere far from this accursed town.

He  would have  continued his  litany of  dislike had  he not  been brought  to
alertness by the distress  call of a mountain  hawk: a bird never  seen or heard
within the walls of Sanctuary. The call was the alarm signal amongst his men. He
left a few coins on the table and departed the Unicorn without undue notice.

A second call led him down a  passageway too narrow to be called an  alley, much
less a street. Moving with stealth and caution, Walegrin eased around  forgotten
doorways suspecting ambush with every step. Only a third call and the appearance
of a familiar face in the shadows quickened his pace.

'Malm, what is  it?' he asked,  stepping over some  soft, stinking mass  without
looking down.

'See for yourself.'

A weak shaft  of light made  its way through  the jutting roofs  of a half-dozen
buildings to illuminate a  pair of corpses. One  was the information broker  who
had just left  Walegrin's company, a  makeshift knife still  protruding from his
neck. The other was  the beggar to whom  he'd given the silver  coin. The latter
bore the cleaner mark of the accomplished killer.

'I see,' Walegrin replied dully.

'The ragged one, he followed the other away from the Unicorn. I'd been following
the broker since we found out about  Runo, so I began to follow them  both. When
the broker caught on that he was being followed, he lit up this cul-de-sac -  by
mistake, I'd guess - and the beggar  followed him. I found the broker like  this
and killed the beggar myself.'

Two more  deaths for  the curse.  Walegrin stared  at the  bodies, then  praised
Malm's diligence  and sent  him back  to the  garrison barracks  to prepare  for
Illyra's visit. He left the corpses in the cul-de-sac where they might never  be
found. This pair he would not enter into the garrison roster.

Walegrin paced the length of the town, providing the inhibiting impression of  a
garrison officer actually on duty, though  if a murder had occurred at  his feet
he would not  have noticed. Twice  he passed the  entrance of the  bazaar, twice
hesitated, and twice continued  on his way. Sunset  found him by the  Promise of
Heaven as the  priests withdrew into  their temples and  the Red Lanterns  women
made their first promenade. By full  darkness he was on the Wideway,  hungry and
close in spirit to the fifteen-year-old who had swum the harbour and stowed away
in the hold of an outbound ship one horrible night many years ago.

In the moonless night  that memory returned to  him with palpable force.  In the
grip of his depravities and obsessed by the imagined infidelity of his mistress,
his father had tortured and killed  her. Walegrin could recall that much.  After
the murder he had run from the barracks  to the harbour. He knew the end of  the
story from campfire tales after  he'd joined the army himself.  Unsatisfied with
murder, his father had dismembered her  body, throwing the head and organs  into
the palace sewer-stream and the rest into the garrison stewpot.

Sanctuary boasted no criers to shout out the hours of the night. When there  was
a moon  its progress  gave approximate  time, but  in its  absence night  was an
eternity, and midnight that moment when  your joints grew stiff from sitting  on
the damp stone pilings of the Wideway and dark memories threatened the periphery
of your  vision. Walegrin  bought a  torch from  the cadaverous  watchman at the
charnel house and entered the quiet bazaar.

Illyra emerged  from the  blacksmith's stall  the second  time Walegrin used the
mountain hawk  cry. She  had concealed  herself in  a dark  cloak which she held
tightly around herself. Her movements  betrayed her fears. Walegrin led  the way
in hurried silence. He took  her arm at the elbow  when they came into sight  of
the barracks. She hesitated, then continued without his urging.

Walegrin's men were  nowhere to be  seen in the  common room that  separated the
men's  and  officers' quarters.  Illyra  paced the  room  like a  caged  animal,
remembering.

'You'll need a table, candles, and what else?' he asked, eager to be on with the
night's activity  and suddenly  mindful that  he had  brought her  back to  this
place.

'It's so much smaller than I remember it,' she said, then added, 'just the table
and candles, I've brought the rest myself.'

Walegrin pulled a table closer to  the hearth. While he gathered up  candles she
unfastened her  cloak and  placed it  over the  table. She  wore sombre woollens
appropriate for a modest woman from the better part of town instead of the gaudy
layers of the S'danzo costume. Walegrin wondered from whom she had borrowed them
and if she  had told her  husband after all.  It mattered little  so long as she
could pierce the spell over his shard.

'Shall I leave  you alone?' Walegrin  asked after removing  the pottery fragment
from the pouch and placing it on the table.

'No, I  don't want  to be  alone in  here.' Illyra  shuffled her  fortune cards,
dropping several in  her nervousness, then  set the deck  back on the  table and
asked, 'Is  it too  much to  ask for  some wine  and information  about what I'm
supposed to be looking for?' A  trace of the bazaar scrappiness returned  to her
voice and she was less lost within the room.

'My man Thrusher wanted to lay in an orgy feast when I told him I'd require  the
common room tonight. Then I told him I only wanted the men out - but it's a poor
barracks without a flask in it,  poorer than Sanctuary.' He found a  half-filled
wineskin behind a sideboard, squirted some into his mouth, and swallowed with  a
rare smile. 'Not the best vintage,  but passable. You'll have to drink  from the
skin...' He handed it to her.

'I drank from  a skin before  I'd seen a  cup. It's a  trick you never  forget.'
Illyra  took  the  wineskin from  him  and  caught a  mouthful  of  wine without
splattering a drop.  'Now, Walegrin,' she  began, emboldened by  the musty wine,
'Walegrin, I can't get either your pottery nor Haakon's oranges out of my  mind.
What is the connection?'

'If this Haakon peddles  Enlibar oranges, then it's  simple. I got the  shard in
Enlibar, in the  ruins of the  armoury there. We  searched three days  and found
only this. But, if anyone's got a  greater piece he knows not what he  has, else
there'd be an army massing somewhere that'd have the Empire quaking.'

Illyra's eyes widened. 'All from a piece of cheap red clay?'

'Not the pottery, my dear sister. The armourer put the formula for Enlibar steel
on a clay tablet and  had a wizard spell the  glaze to conceal it. I  sensed the
spell, but I cannot break it.'

'But  this  might only  be  a small  piece.'  Illyra ran  her  finger along  the
fragment's worn edges. 'Maybe not even a vital part.'

'Your S'danzo gifts are heedless of time, are they not?'

'Well, yes - the past and future are clear to us.'

'Then you should be able to scry back to when the glaze was applied and  glimpse
the entire tablet.'

Illyra shifted  uneasily. 'Yes,  perhaps, I  could glimpse  it but,  Walegrin, I
don't "read",' she shrugged and grinned with the wine.

Walegrin frowned, considering the near-perfect irony of the curse's functioning.
No doubt Illyra could, would, see the complete tablet and be unable to tell  him
what was on it.

'Your cards, they have writing on  them.' He pointed at the runic  verses hoping
that she could read runes but not ordinary script.

She shrugged again. 'I use the pictures  and my gifts. My cards are not  S'danzo
work.' She seemed to apologize for the deck's origin, turning the pile face down
to hide the  offensive ink trails.  'S'danzo are artists.  We paint pictures  in
fate.' She squirted herself another mouthful of wine.

'Pictures?' Walegrin asked. 'Would you see a clear enough image of the tablet to
draw its double here on the table?'

'I could try. I've never done anything like that before.'

'Then try now,' Walegrin suggested, taking the wineskin away from her.

Illyra  placed the  shard atop  the deck,  then brought  both to  her forehead.
Exhaling until she felt the world  grow dim, the wine-euphoria left her  and she
became S'danzo exercising that capricious  gift the primordial gods had  settled
upon her kind. She exhaled again and  forgot that she was in her mother's  death
chamber. Eyes closed,  she lowered the  deck and pottery  to the table  and drew
three cards, face up.

Seven of Ore: again, red clay; the potter with his wheel and kiln.

Quicksilver: a molten waterfall; the alchemic ancestor of all ores: the ace-card
of the suit of Ores.

Two of Ore: steel; war-card; death-card with masked men fighting. She spread her
fingers to touch each card and lost herself in search of the Enlibrite forge.

The armourer  was old,  his hand  shook as  he moved  the brush over the unfired
tablet. An equally  ancient wizard fretted  beside him, glancing  fearfully over
her shoulder  beyond the  limits of  Illyra's S'danzo  gifts. Their clothing was
like nothing Illyra had seen in  Sanctuary. The vision wavered when she  thought
of the present and  she dutifully returned to  the armoury. Illyra mimicked  the
armourer's motions as he covered the tablet with rows of dense, incomprehensible
symbols. The wizard took the tablet and sprinkled fine sand over it. He  chanted
a  sing-song  language  as  meaningless as  the  ink  marks.  Illyra sensed  the
beginnings of the spell and withdrew across time to the barracks in Sanctuary.

Walegrin had removed the  cloth from the table  and placed a charcoal  stylus in
her hand without her sensing it. For a fleeting .moment she compared her copying
to the images still  in her mind. .  Then the image was  gone and she was  fully
back in the room, quietly watching Walegrin as he stared at the table.

'Is it what you wanted?' she asked softly.

Walegrin did not answer,  but threw back his  head in cynical laughter.  'Ah, my
sister! Your mother's people are clever. Their curse reaches back to the dawn of
time. Look at this!'

He pointed at the copied lines and obediently Illyra examined them closely.

'They are not what you wanted?'

Walegrin took the card  of Quicksilver and pointed  to the lines of  script that
delineated the waterfall. 'These are the  runes that have been used since  Ilsig
attained her height,  but this -'  he traced a  squiggle on the  table, 'this is
older  than Ilsig.  By Calisard,  Vortheld, and  a thousand  gods of  long dead
soldiers, how foolish  I've been! For  years I've chased  the secret of  Enlibar
steel and never realized that the formula would be as old as the ruins we  found
it in.'

Illyra reached across the table and  held his clenched fists between her  palms.
'Surely there are those who can read this? How different can one sort of writing
be from another?' she asked with an illiterate's innocence.

'As different as the speech of the Raggah is from yours.'

Illyra nodded. It  was not the  time to tell  him that when  the Raggah came  to
trade they bargained  with hand signals  so none could  hear their speech.  'You
could go to a  scriptorium along Governor's Walk.  They sell letters like  Blind
Jakob sells fruit - it won't matter what the letter says as long as you pay  the
price,' she suggested.

'You don't understand, 'Lyra. If the formula becomes known again, ambition  will
seek it out. Rulers will arm their men with Enlibar steel and set out to conquer
their neighbours. Wars will ruin the land and the men who live on it.'  Walegrin
had calmed himself  and begun to  trace the charcoal  scratches onto a  piece of
translucent parchment.

'But, you wish to have it.' Illyra's tone became accusing.

'For ten years I've  campaigned for Ranke. I've  taken my men far  north, beyond
the plains. In those lands there're nomads  with no cause to fear us. Swift  and
outnumbering us by  thousands they cut  through our ranks  like a knife  through
soft cheese. We fell back and the Emperor had our commanders hung as cowards. We
went forwards again, with new officers, and were thrown back again with the same
results. I  was commissioned  myself and  feared we'd  be sent  forwards a third
time, but Ranke has discovered easier gold  to conquer in the east and the  army
left its dead in the field to chase some other Imperial ambition.

'I remembered  the stories  of Enlibar.  I hid  there when  I first escaped this
town. With Enlibar steel my men's swords would reap nomad blood and I would  not
be deemed a coward.

'I found men  in the capitol  who listened to  my plans. They  knew the army and
knew the battlefield. They're no friends of a hidebound Emperor who sees no more
of war than a parade ground, but  they became my friends. They gave me  leave to
search the ruins with my men and  arranged for the garrison posts here when  all
omens said the answer lay in Sanctuary. If I can return to tnem with the formula
the army won't be the whipping-boy of lazy Emperors. Someday men who  understand
steel and blood would rule ...  but, I've failed them. The damned  S'danzo curse
has preceded me! The mage  was gone when I got  here and my dreams have  receded
further with each step I.decided to take.'

'Walegrin,' Illyra began, 'the S'danzo are not that powerful. Look at the cards.
I cannot read your writing, but I can read them and there are no curses in  your
fate. You've found  what you  came for.  Red clay  yields steel  through the Ore
ruler, Quicksilver. True, Quicksilver is a deceiver, but only because its depths
are concealed. Quicksilver  will let you  change this scribbling  into something
more to your liking.' She was S'danzo again, dispensing wisdom amid her candles,
but  without the  bright colours  and heavy  kohl her  words had  a new  urgent
sincerity.

' You  are touched  by the  same curse!  You lie  with your  husband yet have no
children.'

Illyra shrank back ashamed.  'I ... I use  the S'danzo gifts; I  must believe in
their powers. But you seek the power  of steel and war. You need not  believe in
S'danzo; you need not fear them. You ran away - you escaped! The only curse upon
you is that of your own guilt.'

She averted her eyes  from his face and  collected her cards carefully  lest her
trembling fingers send the deck  flying across the rough-hewn floors.  She shook
out her cloak, getting relief from her anger in the whip-like snap of the  heavy
material.

'I've  answered  your questions.  I'll  take my  payment,  if you  please.'  She
extended her hand, still not looking at his face.

Walegrin unfastened the suede  pouch from his belt  and placed it on  the table.
'I'll get the torch and we can leave for the bazaar.'

'No, I'll take the torch and go alone.'

'The streets are no place for a woman after dark.'

'I'll get by - I did before.'

'I'll have one of my men accompany you.'

'All right,' Illyra agreed, inwardly relieved by the compromise.

From the speed with which the soldier appeared Illyra guessed he had been  right
outside all along and party to  everything that had passed. Regardless, the  man
took the torch and walked slightly  ahead of her, attentive to duty  but without
any attempt at conversation until they reached the bazaar gates where Illyra had
to step forwards to guide them both through the maze of stalls.

She took her leave of the man without farewell and slipped into the darkness  of
her home. Familiarity  obviated need for  light. She moved  quickly and quietly,
folding the clothes into a neat  bundle and storing the precious pouch  with her
few other valuables before easing into the warm bed.

'You've returned safely. I was ready to pull on my trousers and come looking for
you. Did he give you all  that he promised?' Dubro whispered, settling  his arms
around her.

'Yes, and  I answered  all his  questions. He  has the  formula now  for Enlibar
steel, whatever that is,  and if his purposes  are true he'll make  much of it.'
Her body released  its tension in  a series of  small spasms and  Dubro held her
tighter.

'Enlibar steel,' he mused softly. 'The  swords of legend were of Enlibar  steel.
The man who possesses such steel now would be a man to be reckoned with ... even
if he were a blacksmith.'

Illyra pulled the linen over her ears and pretended not to hear.


'Sweetmeats! Sweetmeats! Always the best in the bazaar!

Always the best in Sanctuary!'

Mornings were normal again with  Haakon wheeling his cart past  the blacksmith's
stall before  the crowds  disrupted the  community. Illyra,  one eye ringed with
kohl and the other still pristine, raced out to purchase their breakfast treats.

'There's news in the town,' the vendor said as he dropped three of the  pastries
onto Illyra's plate.  'Twice news in  fact. All of  last night's watch  from the
garrison took its leave of the town during the night and the crippled scribe who
lived  in  the Street  of  Armourers was  carried  off amid  much  screaming and
commotion. Of course,  there was no  watch to answer  the call. The  Hell Hounds
consider it beneath them to patrol the law-abiding parts of town.' Haakon's  ire
was explained, in part, by his own  residence in the upper floors of a  house on
the Street of Armourers.

Illyra looked at Dubro, who nodded slowly in return.

'Might they be connected?' she asked.

'Pah! What would fleeing garrison troops want with a man who reads fifteen  dead
languages but can't pass water without someone to guide his hands?'

What indeed?

Dubro went  back to  his forge  and Illyra  stared over  the bazaar walls to the
palace which marked the northern extent of the town. Haakon, who had expected  a
less mysterious reaction to his news, muttered farewell and wheeled his cart  to
another stall for a more sympathetic audience.

The first  of the  day's townsfolk  could he  heard arguing  with other vendors.
Illyra  hurried  back  into the  shelter  of  the stall  to  complete  her daily
transformation into a S'danzo crone. She pulled Walegrin's three Ore cards  from
her deck  and placed  them in  the pouch  with her  mother's jewellery,  lit the
incense of gentle-forgetting, and greeted the first querent of the day.



THE DREAM OF THE SORCERESS
by A. E. Van Vogt

The scream brought  Stulwig awake in  pitch darkness. He  lay for a  long moment
stiff with fear. Like any resident of old, decadent Sanctuary his first fleeting
thought was that the ancient city, with its night prowlers, had produced another
victim's  cry of  terror. This  one was  almost as  close to  his  second-floor,
greenhouse residence as-

His mind paused. Realization came, then, in a nickering self-condemnation.

Did it again!

His special nightmare. It had come out of that shaded part of his brain where he
kept his one dark  memory. Never a clear  recall. Perhaps not even  real. But it
was all he had from the night  three years and four moons ago when  his father's
death cry had come to him in his sleep.

He was sitting up, now, balancing himself on the side of the couch. And thinking
once more, guiltily: if only that first time I had gone to his room to find out.

Instead, it was  morning before he  had discovered the  dead body with  its slit
throat and its horrifying  grimace. Yet there was  no sign of a  struggle. Which
was  odd. Because  his father  at fifty  was physically  a good  example of  the
healer's art he anc" Alten both practised. Lying there in the light of day after
his death, his sprawled body looked as powerful and strong as that of his son at
thirty.

The vivid images of  that past disaster faded.  Stulwig sank back and  down onto
the sheep fur. Covered himself. Listened in the continuing dark to the sound  of
wind against a corner of his greenhouse. It was a strong wind; he could feel the
bedroom tremble.  Moments later,  he was  still awake  when he  heard a  faraway
muffled cry - someone being murdered out there in the Maze?

Oddly, that was  the final steadying  thought. It brought  his inner world  into
balance with the outer reality. After all, this was Sanctuary where, every  hour
of each night, a life ended violently like a candle snuffed out.

At this time of early, early morning he could think of no purpose that he  could
have about anything. Not with  those dark, dirty, dusty, windblown  streets. Nor
in relation to the sad dream that had brought him to shocked awareness.  Nothing
for him to do, actually, but turn over, and-

He woke with  a start. It  was daylight. And  someone was knocking  at his outer
door two rooms away.

'One moment!' he called out.

Naturally, it required several moments. A  few to tumble out of his  night robe.
And even more to slip into the  tunic, healer's gown, and slippers. Then he  was
hurrying through the bright sunlight of the greenhouse. And on into the  dimness
of the hallway beyond, with its solid door. Solid, that was, except for the vent
at mouth  level. Stulwig  placed his  lips at  his end  of the slanted vent, and
asked,

'Who is it?'

The answering voice was that of a woman. 'It's me. Illyra. Alone.'

The seeress! Stulwig's heart quickened. His instant hope: another chance for her
favours. And alone - that was a strange admission this early in the morning.

Hastily, he  unblocked the  door. Swung  it open,  past his  own gaunt form. And
there she stood in the dimness, at  the top of his stairway. She was  arrayed as
he remembered her, in her numerous skirts and S'danzo scarfs. But the  beautiful
face above all those cloth frills was already shaded with creams and powders.

She said, 'Alten, I dreamed of you.' |      There was something in her tone:  an
implication of darkness.  Stulwig felt an  instant chill. She  was giving him  a
sorceress's signal.

Her presence, alone, began to make sense. What she had to offer him  transcended
a man's itching for a woman. And she expected him to realize it.

Standing there, just inside his door, Stulwig grew aware that he was  trembling.
A dream. The dream of a sorceress.

He swallowed. And found his voice. It  was located deep in his throat, for  when
he spoke it was a husky sound: 'What do you want?'

'I need three of your herbs.' She named them: stypia, gernay, dalin.

This was the  bargaining moment. And  in the world  of Sanctuary there  were few
victims at  such a  time. From  his already  long experience,  Stulwig made  his
offer: 'The stypia and the  gernay for the dream. For  the dalin one hour in  my
bed tonight for an assignation.'

Silence. The bright eyes seemed to shrink.

'What's this?' asked  Stulwig. 'Is it  possible that with  your see-ress's sight
you believe that this time there will be no evasion?'

Twice before, she had made reluctant assignation agreements. On each occasion, a
series  of  happenings  brought  about  a  circumstance  whereby  he  needed her
assistance. And for that, release from the assignation was her price.

Stulwig's voice softened  to a gentler  tone: 'Surely, it's  time, my beautiful,
that you discover how much greater pleasure  it is for a woman to have  lying on
her the weight of a normal  man rather than that monstrous mass  of blacksmith's
muscles, the possessor of which by  some mysterious power captured you when  you
were still too young to know any better. Is it a bargain?'

She hesitated a moment  longer. And then, as  he had expected after  hearing the
name of the third drug, she nodded.

A business  transaction. And  that required  the goods  to be  on hand.  Stulwig
didn't argue. 'Wait!' he admonished.   ^

Himself, he did not wait. Instead, he backed quickly out of the hallway and into
the greenhouse. He  presumed that, with  her seeress's sight,  she knew that  he
knew about the very special person who wanted the dalin. He felt tolerant.  That
prince - he  thought. In spite  of all the  advice the women  receive as to when
they are, and are not, capable of accepting the male seed, the youthful governor
evidently possesses his concubines so often  that they are unable to divert  his
favours away from the one  who - by sorceress's wisdom  - is most likely in  the
time of pregnancy capability.

And so - a miscarriage was needed. A herb to bring it on.

Suppressing   excitement,  the   dream  almost   forgotten  in   his  state   of
overstimulation, the healer  located all three  herbs, in turn.  The stypia came
from a flowering plant that spread itself over one entire end of his big, bright
room. Someone would be using it soon for a persistent headache. The gernay was a
mixture of two roots, a flower, and a leaf, all ground together, to be made into
a tea  with boiling  water, steeped,  and drunk  throughout the  day. It was for
constipation.

While he  worked swiftly,  deftly, putting  each separately  into a small pouch,
Stulwig pictured Illyra  leaving her little  stall. At the  opportune moment she
had pushed  aside the  black curtains  that blocked  her away  from the sight of
curious passersby. His mental image was of a one-room dwelling place in a dreary
part of the Maze. Coming out of that flimsy shelter at this hour of the  morning
was not the wisest act even for  a seeress. But, of course, she would  have some
knowing to guide her. So that she could dart from one concealment to another  at
exactly the right moments, avoiding danger. And then, naturally, once she got to
the narrow stairway leading up to his  roof abode, there would be only the  need
to verify that no one was lurking on the staircase itself.

He brought the three bags back to  the hallway, and placed two of them  into her
slender hands. And with that, there it was again, the reason for her visit.  The
special dream. For him.

He waited, not daring  to say anything for,  suddenly, there was that  tenseness
again.

She seemed not to need prompting. She  said simply, 'In my dream. Ils came to me
in the form  of an angry  young man and  spoke to me  about you. His  manner was
ferocious throughout; and my impression is that he is displeased with you.'  She
finished,  'In his  human form  he had  jet black  hair that  came down  to his
shoulders.'

There was silence. Inside Stulwig, a blankness spread from some inner centre  of
fear. A numbness seemed to be in all locations.

Finally: 'Us!' he croaked.

The impossible!

There  were  tales  that  reported  the  chief  god  of  old  Ilsig occasionally
interfering directly in  human affairs. But  that he had  done so in  connection
with Alten Stulwig brought a sense of imminent disaster.

Illyra seemed to know  what he was feeling.  'Something about your father,'  she
said, softly, 'is the problem.'

Her hand and arm reached out. Gently,  she took hold of the third pouch;  tugged
at it. Stulwig let go. He watched numbly as she turned and went rapidly down the
stairway. Moments later there was  a flare of light  as the bottom door  opened 
and shut. Just before it  closed he had a glimpse  of the alley that was  there,
and of her turning to go left.

Us!

All that morning, after the sick people started to arrive, Stulwig tried to  put
the thought of the  god out of his  mind. There were several  persons who talked
excessively about their ailments;  and for a change  he let them ramble  on. The
sound of each person's voice, in  turn, distracted him for a precious  time from
his inner feeling of imminent disaster.  He was accustomed to pay attention,  to
compare, and decide. And, somehow, through  all the numbness he managed to  hold
onto that ability.

A persistent stomach ache - 'What have you been eating?' The flower of the agris
plant was exchanged for a silver coin.

A pain in the chest. 'How long? Where, exactly?' The root of the dark melles was
eaten and  swallowed while  he watched,  in exchange  for one  small Rankan gold
piece.

Persistently bleeding gums. The flower and seeds of a rose, and the light  brown
grindings from the husk of grain were handed over, with the instruction: 'Take a
spoonful     each     morning     and     night.'                              ,
-

There were a dozen like that. All  were anxious and disturbed. And they took  up
his time until  the morning was  almost over. Suddenly,  the visitors ceased  to
come. At once, there was the awful thought of Ils the Mighty, angry with him.

'What could he want of me?'

That was the persistent question. Not, what purpose could Alten Stulwig have  in
this awful predicament? But what intention did the super-being have in  relation
to him? Or what did he require of him?

It was almost the noon hour before the second possibility finally penetrated the
madness of  merely waiting  for further  signals. And  the more personal thought
took form.

'It's up to me. I should ask certain  people for advice, or even-' sudden hope  
'information.'

Just like that he had something he could do.

At that moment there was one more patient. And then, as the rather stocky  woman
departed  with her  little leather  bag clutched  in one  greasy hand,  Stulwig
hastily put  on his  street boots.  Grabbed his  stave. And,  moments later, was
heading down the stairs two at a time.

Arrived at the  bottom; naturally, he  paused. And peered  forth cautiously. The
narrow  street, as  he now  saw it,  pointed both  left and  right. The  nearest
crossing was an alleyway to the left. And Stulwig presumed, as his gaze  flicked
back and forth,  Illyra, on her  leave-taking that morning,  had turned up  that
alley.

-Though it was still not clear why she  had gone left when her stall was to  the
right. Going by the alley was, for her, a long, devious route home...

His own destination,  already decided, required  Stulwig to pass  her stall. And
so, his stave at the ready, he walked rightwards. A few dozen steps brought  him
to a crowded  thoroughfare. Again, a  pause. And, once  more, his gaze  flicking
back and forth. Not that he felt in danger here, at this hour. What he saw was a
typical throng. There were the short  people who wore the sheeny satinish  cloth
of west Caronne. They mingled casually with the taller folk in dark tunics  from
the far south of  the Empire. Equally at  ease were red-garbed sailors  on shore
leave from a Cleean  vessel. Here and there  a S'danzo woman in  her rich attire
reminded him of Illyra. There were other races, and other dress, of course.  But
these were more of  a kind. The shabby  poor. The thieves. The  beggars. All too
similar, one to the other, to be readily identified.

For a  few moments,  as he  stood there,  Stulwig's own  problem faded  from the
forefront of his mind. In its place came a feeling he had had before: a sense of
wonder.

Me! Here in this fantastic world.

All these people. This street, with  its ancient buildings, its towers, and  its
minarets. And the meaning of it all going back and back into the dim reaches  of
a fabulous history.

Almost -  standing there  - Stulwig  forgot where  he was  heading. And when the
memory came again it seemed to have a different form.

A more practical form.  As if what he  had in mind was  a first step of  several
that    would    presently    lead    him    to    -    what?    Mental   pause.
.

It  was,  he  realized, the  first  dim  notion of  having  a  goal beyond  mere
information. First, of course, the facts; those he had to have.

Somehow, everything was suddenly clearer.  As he started forwards it  was almost
as if he had a purpose with a solution implicit in it.

Illyra's stall he passed a short  time later. Vague disappointment, then, as  he
saw that the black curtains were drawn.

Stulwig stalked on, heading west out of town across the bridge which spanned the
White Foal River.  He ignored the  hollow-eyed stares of  the Downwinders as  he
passed their hovels, and only slowed his pace when he reached his destination, a
large estate  lorded over  by a  walled mansion.  A sell-sword  stood guard just
inside the large, spreading yard.  Theirs was a language Stulwig  understood. He
took out two coppers and held them forth. -

'Tell Jubal that Alien Stulwig wishes to see him.'

The coppers were skilfully  palmed, and transferred to  a slitted pocket in  the
tight-fitting toga. In a baritone voice the sell-sword called out the message -

Stulwig entered the throne room, and saw that gleaming-skinned black man sitting
on the throne chair. He  bowed courteously- towards the throne.  Whereupon Jubal
waved one large arm, beckoning his visitor. And then he sat scowling as  Stulwig
told his story.                                 ;,

Despite the scowl, there was no resistance, or antagonism, in the bright, wicked
eyes; only interest.  Finally, as Stulwig  fell silent, the  merchant said, 'You
believe, as I understand you, that one or another of my numerous paid informants
may have heard something at the time of your father's death that would provide a
clue: information, in short, that is not even available from a sorceress.'

'I so believe,' acknowledged Stulwig.

'And how much will you pay if I can correctly recall something that was said  to
me in passing more than three long years ago?'

Stulwig hesitated; and hoped that his desperation did not show on that sunburned
face of his; it was  the one thing the chapped  skin was good for: sometimes  it
enabled him to conceal his feelings. What he sensed now was a high cost; and the
best outward show for that was to act as if this was a matter about which he was
merely curious. 'Perhaps,' he said, in  his best practical tone, 'your next  two
visits for healing free-'

'For what I remember,' said the big black, 'the price is the medium Rankan  gold
piece and the two visits.'

Long, unhappy pause. All this trouble and cost for an innocent man who, himself,
had done nothing. It seemed unfair. 'Perhaps,' ventured Stulwig, 'if you were to
give me the information I could decide if the price is merited.'

He was slightly surprised when Jubal nodded. 'That seems reasonable. We're  both
men of our word.' The big man twisted his lips, as if he were considering. Then:
'The morning after your father died, a night prowler who watches the dark  hours
for me saw Vashanka come through your door  - not out of it, through it. He  was
briefly a figure of dazzling light as he moved down the street. Then he vanished
in a blinding puff of brightness akin to lightning. The flareup, since it lit up
the entire  street, was  seen by  several other  persons, who  did not  know its
origin.'

Jubal continued, 'I should tell you that there is an old story that a god can go
through a wall or a door only if a second god is nearby on the other side. So we
may reason that for Vashanka to be able to emerge in the fashion described there
was another god outside. However, my  informants did not see this second  mighty
being.'

'Bu-u-t-t!'  Stulwig heard  a stuttering  voice. And  only when  the mad  sound
collapsed into silence did he realize that  it was his own mouth that had  tried
to speak.

What he wanted to say,  what was trying to form  in his mind" and in  his tongue
was that, for Vashanka to have penetrated into the barricaded greenhouse in  the
first place, then  there must already  have been a  god inside; who  had somehow
inveigled his way past his father's cautious resistance to night-time visitors.

The words, the meaning,  wouldn't come. The logic  of it was too  improbable for
Stulwig to pursue the matter.

Gulping, he fumbled in his pocket. Identified the desired coin with his fingers.
Brought it ont. And laid it into the outstretched palm. The price was cheap - it
was as if a voice inside him spoke his acceptance of that truth.

For a while after Stulwig left Jubal's grounds, his feeling was that he had  now
done what there was to  do. He had the information  he had craved. So what  else
was there? Go home and - and -Back to normalcy.

It was an  unfortunate way of  describing the reality  to himself. It  brought a
mental picture of a return to his daily routine as if no warning had been given.
His deep, awful feeling was that something more was expected of him. What  could
it be?

It was noon. The  glowing orb in the  sky burned down upon  Stulwig. His already
miserably sunburned face itched abominably, and he kept scratching at the scabs;
and hating himself because his sun-sensitive  skin was his one disaster that  no
herb or ointment seemed to help. And  here he was stumbling in the direct  rays,
making it worse.

He was walking  unsteadily, half-blinded by  his own inner  turmoil and physical
discomfort, essentially not heeding the crowds  around him when ... the part  of
him that was guiding him, holding  him away from collisions, helping him  find a
pathway  through an  everchanging river  of people  - that  part, still  somehow
observant, saw a familiar man's face.

Stulwig stopped short. But already the man was gone by; his feet scraping at the
same dusty  street as  were the  feet of  a dozen  other passers  of the moment;
scraping dust and breathing it in.

Normally, Stulwig would have let him go. But this was not a normal time. He spun
around. He jammed his stave against the ground as a brace. And took four,  long,
swift steps. He reached.

Almost gently, then, his fingers touched the sleeve and, through it, the arm  of
the man. 'Cappen Varra,' Stulwig said.

The young man with the long black  hair that rested on his shoulders turned  his
head.  The tone  ofStulwig's voice  was evidently  not threatening;  for Cappen
merely paused without tensing. Nor did he make a quick reach of the hand towards
the blade at his side.

But it took several moments before he seemed to realize who his interceptor was.
Then: 'Oh! the healer?' He spoke questioningly.

Stulwig was apologetic. 'I would like to speak to you, sir. Though, as I  recall
it you only  sought my services  on one occasion.  And I think  somebody told me
that you had recently departed from Sanctuary for a visit to your distant home.'

The minstrel did not reply immediately.  He was backing off, away from  the main
stream of that endlessly moving crowd;  backing towards a small space between  a
fruit stand and a table on which  stood a dozen small crates, each containing  a
half-dozen or so small, live, edible, noisy birds.

Since Stulwig had shuffled after him, Cappen was able to say in a low voice, 'It
was a very  decisive time for  me. The herbs  you gave me  produced a series  of
regurgitations  which probably  saved my  life. I  still believe  I was  served
poisoned food.'

'I need advice,' said Alten Stulwig.

'We can talk here,' said Cappen.

It was not an easy  story to tell. There was  a rise and fall of  street sounds.
Several times he coughed from an intake of  dust thrown at him by the heel of  a
passerby.  But  in the  end  he had  completed  his account.  And  it was  then,
suddenly, that the other man's eyes widened, as if a startling thought had  come
to him.

'Are you telling me that you are seriously pursuing the murderer of your father,
despite that you have now discovered that the killer may well be the second most
powerful Rankan god?'

It was the  first time that  meaning had been  spoken so exactly.  Stulwig found
himself suddenly as  startled as his  questioner. Before he  could say anything,
the lean-faced, good-looking wandering singer spoke again: 'What - what  happens
if he ever

lets you catch up with him?'

The way the  question was worded  somehow steadied the  healer. He said,  'As we
know, Vashanka can come to  me any time he wishes.  My problem is that I  do not
know why he came to my father, nor why he would come to me? If I could find that
out, then perhaps I could go to the temple of Ils and ask the priests for help.'

Cappen  frowned, and  said, 'Since  you seem  to have  these powerful  purposes,
perhaps I  should remind  you of  the myth.'  He went  on: 'You  know the story.
Vashanka is the god of warriors and weapons, the wielder of lightning, and other
powerful forces. You know of this?'

'What I  don't understand,'  Stulwig replied  helplessly, 'is  why would  such a
being kill my father?'

'Perhaps-' a shrug - 'they were rivals for the affection of the same woman.'  He
went on, 'It is well known that  the gods frequently assume human form in  order
to have  concourse with  human females.'  The beautiful  male face  twisted. The
bright eyes  gazed into  Stulwig's. 'I  have heard  stories,' Cappen said, 'that
you, as your father before you,  often accept a woman's favours in  exchange for
your services as a healer; the woman having nothing else to give pays the  price
in the time-honoured way of male-female. As a consequence you actually have many
half-brothers out there in the streets, and you yourself - so it has been said 
have sired a dozen sons and  daughters, unacknowledged because of course no  one
can ever  be sure  who is  the father  of these  numerous waifs, unless there is
unmistakable facial resemblance.'

Another shrug. 'I'm not blaming you. These are the truths of our world. But-'

He stopped. His hand extended gingerly, and touched Stulwig's stave. 'It's tough
wood.'

Stulwig was uneasy. 'Awkward to handle in close quarters, and scarcely a  weapon
to ward off the god of lightning.'

'Nevertheless,' said  Cappen, 'it's  your best  defence. Use  it firmly. Keep it
between you and  any attacker. Yield  ground and flee  only when there's  a good
moment.'

'But,' protested Stulwig, 'suppose Vashanka seeks  me out? Shall I pit my  staff
against  the  Rankan  god  of war?'  When  Cappen  merely  stood there,  looking
indifferent now, the healer continued in a desperate tone, 'There are stories of
how Ils helped individuals in battle in the old days.  But I grew up after  the'
Rankan conquest and -' he was gloomy - ' somehow the powers of the defeated  god
of old Ilsig didn't seem worth inquiring about. So I'm ignorant of what he  did,
or how.'

Abruptly, Cappen Varra was impatient. 'You asked for my advice,' he said curtly.
'I have given it to you. Goodbye.'

He walked off into the crowd.

They  brought Stulwig  before the  prince, who  recognized him.  'Why, it's  the
healer,' he said. Whereupon, he glanced question-ingly at Molin Torchbearer.

The hall of justice was all too brightly lit by the mid-afternoon sunlight.  The
sun was at that location in the sky whereby its rays shone directly through  the
slanting vents that were  designed to catch, and  siphon off, rain water  ... as
the high priest said accusingly,  'Your most gracious excellency, we  found this
follower of Ils in the temple of Vashanka.'

With the brilliant light pouring down upon him, Stulwig started towards the dais
- and the two Hell Hounds, who had been holding him, let him go.

He stopped  only when  he came  to the  long wooden  barrier that  separated the
accused criminals from the  high seat, where the  prince sat in judgement.  From
that fence,  Stulwig spoke  his protest.  'I did  no harm,  your highness. And I
meant  no harm.  Tell his  excellency-' he  addressed Torchbearer  - 'that  your
assistants found me on my knees before the-' he hesitated; he had been about  to
say 'the  idol'. Uneasily,  his mind  moved over  to the  word, 'statue'. But he
rejected that also, shuddering. After a long moment he finished lamely - 'before
Vashanka himself, praying for his assistance.'

'Yes, but a follower of Ils praying to a son of Savankala-' Torchbearer was grim
- 'absolutely forbidden by the doctrines of our religion.'

There seemed  to be  no answer  that he  could make.  Feeling helpless,  Stulwig
waited. It was a  year since he had  last seen the youthful  governor, who would
now decide his fate. Standing there, Stulwig couldn't help but notice that there
were changes in the young ruler's appearance - for the better, it seemed to him.

The  prince, as  all knew,  was at  this time  twenty years  old. He  had been
representative in Sanctuary  for his older  half-brother, the emperor,  for only
one of  those years,  but that  year had  brought a  certain maturity where once
there had been  softness. It was  still a boyish  face, but a  year of power had
marked it with an appearance of confidence.

The young governor seemed undecided, as he said, 'Well - it does not look like a
serious crime. I should think we would encourage converts rather than  punishing
them.'  He  hesitated,  then  followed  the  amenities.  'What  penalty  do  you
recommend?' He addressed the high priest of Rankan deities courteously.

There was  a surprisingly  long pause.  Almost, it  was as  if the older man was
having second thoughts.  Torchbearer said finally,  'Perhaps, we should  inquire
what he was praying for. And then decide.'

'An excellent idea,' the prince agreed heartily.

Once more, then, Stulwig  told his story, ending  in a humble tone,  'Therefore,
sir, as soon as  I discovered that, apparently,  the great gods themselves  were
involved in  some disagreement,  I decided  to pray  to Vashanka  to ask what he
wanted me to do; asked  him what amends I could  make for whatever my sin  might
be.'

He  was  surprised as  he  completed his  account  to see  that  the prince  was
frowning. And, in fact, moments later, the young governor bent down towards  one
of the men at a table below him to one side, and said something in a low  voice.
The aide's reply was equally inaudible.

The youngest  ruler Sanctuary  had ever  had thereupon  faced forwards. His gaze
fixed on Stulwig's face. 'There are  several people in these parts,' he  said in
an  alarmingly severe  voice, 'of  whose whereabouts  we maintain  a continuing
awareness.  Cappen Varra,  for several  reasons, is  one of  these. And  so, Mr
Healer, I have to inform you that Cappen left Sanctuary half a moon ago, and  is
not expected back for at least two more moons.'

'B-b-bu-ut-' Stulwig began. And stopped. Then in a high-pitched voice: 'That man
in the seeress's dream!' he stuttered. 'Long black hair to the shoulders. Ils in
human form!'

There was silence after he had spoken there in that great hall of justice, where
a youthful Rankan  prince sat in  judgement, looking down  from his high  bench.
Other offenders  were waiting  in the  back of  the room.  They were  guarded by
slaves, with the two Hell Hounds that had brought Stulwig acting as overseers.

So there would be witnesses to this judgement. The wisdom of it, whatever course
it might take, would be debated when the news of it got out.

Standing  there, Stulwig  suppressed an  impulse to  remind his  highness of  a
certain night thirteen moons ago. In the wee hours he had been called out of his
bed, and escorted to the palace.

On that occasion he had been taken directly into the prince's bedroom. There  he
found a frightened young man, who had awakened in the darkness with an extremely
fast heartbeat - more than double normal, Stulwig discovered when he counted the
pulse. The attending court  healer had not been  able, by his arts,  to slow the
madly beating organ. Stulwig had braced  himself, and had taken the time  to ask
the  usual  questions, which  produced  the information  that  his highness  had
imbibed excessively all evening.

A minor heart condition was thus revealed. The cure: primarily time for the body
to dispose of the  alcohol through normal channels.  But Stulwig asked, and  was
given, permission to return to his  greenhouse. He raced there accompanied by  a
Hell Hound. Arrived at his quarters, he procured the mixture of roots,  nettles,
and a large red  flower which, when steeped  in boiling water, and  swallowed in
mouthfuls every  few minutes,  within an  hour had  the heartbeat  down, not  to
normal, but sufficiently to be reassuring.

He thereupon informed the young man that according to his father persons that he
had attended when they were young,  who had the same reaction, were  still alive
two  decades later.  The prince  was greatly  relieved, and  promised to  limit
himself to no more than one drink of an evening.

Remained, then, the task of saving face for the court healer. Which Stulwig  did
by thanking  that disgraced  individual for  calling him  for consultation; and,
within  the hearing  of the  prince, adding  that it  took many  individuals to
accumulate experience of all the ills that  men were heir to. 'And one of  these
days I shall be asking your help.'

Would the youthful governor remember that night,  and decide - hopeful thought 
that Alten Stulwig was too valuable to penalize?

What the prince did, first, was ask one more question. He said, 'During the time
you were with the person who seemed to be Cappen Varra, did he break into  song,
or recite a verse?'

The significance of the question was instantly apparent. The minstrel was  known
for  his gaiety,  and his  free and  easy renditions  under all  circumstances.
Stulwig made  haste to  say, 'No,  highness, not  a sound,  or a  poetic phrase.
Contrariwise, he seemed very serious.'

A few moments later, the prince  rendered his judgement. He said, 'Since  mighty
Vashanka  himself  seems to  be  acting directly  in  this matter,  it  would be
presumptuous of us to interfere.'

The  lean-faced young  man glanced  at Molin.  The high  priest hesitated,  then
nodded. Whereupon the prince turned once more to Stulwig.

'Most worthy healer,' he  said, 'you are released  to whatever the future  holds
for you. May the gods dispense justice upon you, balancing your virtues  against
your sins.'

'-So he does remember!' thought Stulwig, gratefully.

Surprisingly, after he had been escorted outside, Stulwig knew at once which was
the proper place for him  to go. Many times he  had been confronted by grief  or
guilt, or the hopelessness of a slighted lover, or a betrayed wife. For none  of
these had his  herbs ever accomplished  more than a  passing moment of  sleep or
unconsciousness.

So now,  as he  entered the  Vulgar Unicorn,  he muttered  under his  breath the
bitter advice he had  given on those special  occasions for what his  father had
called ailments of the spirit. The words, heard only by himself, were: 'What you
need, Alten, is a good stiff drink.' It was the ancient prescription for calming
the overwrought or  the overemotional. In  its fashion, however,  liquor in fact
was a concoction of brewed herbs, and so within his purview.

The smell of the inn was already in his nostrils. The dimly lit interior blanked
his vision.  But Stulwig  could see  sufficiently well  so that  he was aware of
vague figures sitting at tables, and  of the gleam of polished wood.  He sniffed
the mingling odours of hot food cooking. And already felt better.

And he knew this interior  sufficiently well. So he strode  forwards confidently
towards the dividing barrier where the  brew was normally dispensed. And he  had
his lips parted to give his order  when his eyes, more accustomed to the  light,
saw who it was that was taking the orders.

''One-Thumb!'  The name  was almost  torn out  of his  lips; so  great was  his
surprise and delight.

Eagerly, he reached forwards and grasped the other's thick hand. 'My friend, you
had us all  worried. You have  been absent-' He  stopped, confused. Because  the
time involved  even for  a long  journey was  long. Much  more than  a year.  He
finished his greeting with a gulp, 'You are right welcome, sir.'

The  owner of  the Vulgar  Unicorn had  become more  visible with  each passing
moment. So that when he gestured with one of his big hands at a helper,  Stulwig
perceived the entire action; even saw the youth turn and come over.

The roly-poly but rugged One-Thumb indicated a table in one corner. ' Bring  two
cups of brew thither for my friend  and myself,' he said. To Alten he  added, 'I
would have words with you, sir.'

So there they sat presently. And,  after several sips, One-Thumb said, 'I  shall
say quickly what need be said. Alten, I must confess that I am not the real One
Thumb. I came because,  with my sorcerer's seeing,  when this past noon  hour my
body took on the form at which you  are gazing, I had a visitor who informed  me
that the transformation to a known person related to you.'

It  was  a long  explanation.  Long enough  for  Stulwig to  have  a variety  of
reactions.  First,  amazement. Then,  progressively,  various puzzlements.  And,
finally, tentative comprehension, and acceptance.

And since he held a drink in his hand, he raised it, and said, 'To the real One
Thumb, wherever he may be.'

With that, still thinking  hard as to what  he could gain from  this meeting, he
sipped from his cup; took a goodly quaff from it, and set it down. All the while
noticing that the other did not drink to the toast.

The false One-Thumb said unhappily, 'My seeing tells me that the real  One-Thumb
is in some strange location. It is not quite clear that he is still dead; but he
was killed.'

Up came Stulwig's glass.  'Very well, then, to  Enas Yorl, the sorcerer,  who in
whatever shape seems to be willing to be my friend.'

This time the other man's cup came  up slowly. He sipped. 'I suppose,' he  said,
'no one can refuse to drink to  himself; since my motives are worthy I  shall do
so.'

Stulwig's mind was nickering  again with the meanings  of what had been  said in
that long explanation. So, now, he asked the basic question: 'Enas,' he mumbled,
'in what way does your being in One-Thumb's body shape relate to me?'

The fleshy head nodded.  'Pay careful heed,' said  the voice of One-Thumb.  'The
goddess Azyuna  appeared to  me as  I was  experiencing the  anguish of changing
form, and asked me to give you  this message. You must go home before  dark. But
do  not  this night  admit  to your  quarters  any person  who  has the  outward
appearance of  a man.  Do this  no matter  how pitifully  he begs for a healer's
assistance, or how many  pieces of gold he  is prepared to pay.  Tonight, direct
all male visitors to other healers.'

It took a while to drink to that, and to wonder about it aloud. And, of  course,
as Sanctuarites, they discussed once more the story of Azyuna. How Vashanka  had
discovered that she (his sister) and his ten brothers had plotted to murder  the
father-god ofRanke, Savankala. Whereupon, Vashanka  in his rage slew all  ten of
the  brothers; but  his sister  he reserved  for a  worse fate.  She became  his
unwilling mistress. And at times when  the winds moaned and sobbed, it  was said
that Azyuna was again being forced to pay the price of her intended betrayal  of
her parents.

And now she  had come down  from heaven to  warn a mere  human being against the
brother who exacted that shame from her.                         '

'How,'  asked  Stulwig, after  he  had quaffed  most  of a  second  cup and  had
accordingly reached  a philosophical  state of  mind, 'would  you, old wise Enas
Yorl, explain why a goddess would take the trouble to warn a human being against
some scheme of her god-brother-lover?'

'Because,' was the reply, 'she may be a goddess but she is also a woman. And  as
all men know, women get even in strange ways.'

At  that,  Stulwig, remembering  certain  experiences of  his  own, shuddered  a
little, nodded agreement, and said, 'I estimate that we have been imbibing for a
goodly time, and so perhaps I had better take heed of your warning, and  depart.
Perhaps, there is something I can do for you. A fee, perhaps.'

'Make it one free visit when one of my changing shapes be-cometh ill.'

'But not this night.' Stulwig stood up, somewhat lightheaded, and was even  able
to smile at his small jest.

'No, not  this night,'  agreed One-Thumb,  also standing  up. The  big man added
quickly, 'I shall appear to accompany you to the door as if to bid you  goodbye.
But in fact I shall go out with you.

And so One-Thumb will vanish once more, perhaps this time forever.'

'He has done nobly this day,' said Stulwig. Whereupon he raised the almost empty
third cup, and said,  'To the spirit of  One-Thumb, wherever it may  be, my good
wishes.'

As it  developed, Enas  Yorl's plan  of escape  was made  easy. Because  as they
emerged from the inn  there, coming up, was  a small company of  Rankan military
led by  a Hell  Hound. The  latter, a  man named  Quag, middle-aged,  but with a
prideful bearing,  said to  Stulwig, 'Word  came to  his highness  that you were
imbibing heavily; and so he has sent  me and this company to escort you  to your
residence.'

Stulwig turned to bid farewell to the false One-Thumb. And at once observed that
no such person was in sight. Quag seemed to feel that he was surprised. 'He went
around that corner.' He indicated with his thumb. 'Shall we pursue him?'

'No, no.'

It was  no problem  at all  for a  man with  three cups  of brew  in him to step
forwards, and walk beside a Hell Hound like an equal.

And to say, 'I'm somewhat surprised at his highness taking all this trouble  for
a person not of Ranke birth, or-' daringly -'religion.'

Quag was calm,  seemingly unoffended. 'These  are not matters  about which I  am
qualified to have an opinion.'

'Of course,' Stulwig  continued with a  frown, 'getting me  back to my  quarters
could place me in  a location where the  mighty Vashanka could most  easily find
me.'

They were walking along a side street in the Maze. But a goodly crowd pressed by
at that moment. So if Quag were contemplating a reply it was interrupted by  the
passing of so great a number of individuals.

When they had wended through the mob, Stulwig continued, 'After all, we have  to
remember that it is Ils that is the  god of a thousand  eyes. Which, presumably,
means that he can see simultaneously where everybody in the world of Ilsig is at
any one moment. No such claim - of  many eyes - is made for either Savankala  or
his son, Vashanka. And so we may guess that Vashanka does not know that-'

He stopped, appalled. He had almost let slip that the goddess Azyuna had come to
Enas Yorl with a  warning. And, of course,  her brother-lover, with his  limited
vision, would not know that she had done so.

'These are all fine points,' Stulwig finished lamely, 'and of concern only to an
individual like myself who seems to have earned the displeasure of one of  these
mighty beings.'

Quag was calm. 'Having lived many years,' he said, 'it could be that I have some
clarifying information for  you, whereby you  may judge the  seriousness of your
situation.' He continued, after a  moment of silence,' In Sanctuary,  the reason
for the gods interfering in human  affairs can have only one underlying  motive.
Someone has got above  himself. What would be  above a healer? A  woman of noble
family taken advantage of. An insult to a priest or god. Was your father  guilty
of either sin?'

'Hmmm!'  Stulwig did  not resist  the analysis.  He nodded  thoughtfully in  the
Sanctuary way of agreement, shaking his  head from side to side. 'No  question,'
he said, 'it was not a chance  killing. The assassin by some means penetrated  a
barricaded residence, committed  the murder, and  departed without stealing  any
valuables. In  a city  where people  are daily  killed most  casually for  their
possessions, when  - as  in this  instance of  my father's  assassination -  the
possessions are untouched, we are entitled to guess a more personal motive.'

He added unhappily,  'I have to  confess that the  reason I did  not run to  his
rescue when I heard  his cry, was that  he had established an  agreement with me
that neither of us  would intrude upon the  other during the night  hours. So it
could have been a lady of quality being avenged.'

For a  small time  they walked  silently. Then:  'I advise  you to  abandon this
search.' Quag spoke  earnestly. 'Go back  to your healing  profession, and leave
murderers to the authorities.'

This time Stulwig did the up and down headshake, meaning no. He said  unhappily,
'When Ils himself manifests in a  dream, which unmistakably commands me to track
down the killer, I have no choice.'

The  Hell Hound's  craggy face  was visibly  unimpressed. 'After  all,' he  said
dismissingly, 'Your Ils failed all his people in  Sanctuary when he allowed  the
city to be overrun by armies that worshipped another god.'

'The city is being punished for its sinfulness.' Stulwig automatically spoke the
standard explanation  given by  the priests  of Ils. 'When we  have learned  our
lesson, and paid our penalty, the invader will be impelled to depart.'

'When I left the palace,' said Quag,  'there was no sign of the prince's  slaves
packing his goods.' Shrugging. 'Such a departure for such a reason is  difficult
for me to envision, and I suggest you build no hopes on it.'

He broke off. 'Ah, here we are. As soon as you are safely inside - and of course
we'll search the place and make sure there is no one lurking in a dark corner-'

It was a  few periods later.  'Thank you,' said  a grateful Stulwig.  He watched
them, then, go down the stairs. When Quag paused at the bottom, and looked  back
questioningly, Stulwig dutifully closed and barricaded the door.

And there he was.

It was a quiet  evening. Two men patients  and one woman patient  knocked on the
door. Each, through  the vent, requested  healing service. Stulwig  sent the men
down  the street  to Kurd;  and they  departed in  their considerably  separated
times, silently accepting.

Stulwig hesitated when he heard the woman's voice. She was a long-time  patient,
and would pay in gold. Nevertheless,  he finally directed her to a  healer named
Nemis. When  the woman  objected, he  gave as  his excuse  that he had eaten bad
food, and was not well. She seemed to accept that; for she went off, also.

Shortly after midnight there was a  fourth hesitant knock. It was Illyra.  As he
heard her  whisper, something  inside Stulwig  leaped with  excitement. She  had
come, she said, as they had agreed upon that morning.         .

An exultant Stulwig  unlocked the door.  Admitted her. Motioned  her towards his
bedroom. And,  as she  went with  a heavy  rustling of  her numerous  skirts, he
barricaded the door again.

Moments later, he was  snuffing out the candles,  and flinging off his  clothes.
And then in  pitch darkness he  joined her in  the bed. As  he located her naked
body, he had no sense of guilt; no feeling of being wrong.

In Sanctuary everybody knew  the game. There were  no prissies. Every woman  was
someone's mistress whether she liked it  or not. Every man was out  for himself,
and  took  advantage where  he  could. There  were,  true, codes  of  honour and
religion. But they did not apply to love, liquor, or making a living. You  drove
the hardest bargain right now.

The opportunity seen. Instantly, the mind wildly scanned the possibilities. Then
came the initial outrageous demand, thereupon negotiated downward by the equally
determined defences of the second party to the transaction.

And that was  what had brought  the beautiful Illyra  into his embrace.  Her own
agreement that, unless something happened  to interfere, she would be  available
for him in the man-woman relation.

Apparently, once she realized that the  bargain was binding, she did not  resist
its meaning. In  the darkness Stulwig  found her naked  body fully acceptant  of
him. Complete with  many small motions  and excitements. Most  of the women  who
paid in kind for his services lay like frozen statues, occasionally vibrating  a
little in the final moments of the act. After which they hastily slipped out  of
bed. Dressed. And raced off down the stairs and out into the Maze.

With Illyra so different, even to the point of sliding her palms over his  skin,
Stulwig found  himself thinking  once more  of the  huge blacksmith  who was her
established lover. It was hard to visualize this female, even though she  seemed
somewhat larger than he would have guessed,  with such a massive male on top  of
her. Although-

A sudden realization: there were surprisingly strong muscles that lay under him.
... This woman is no weakling. In fact-

Presently, as he proceeded with  the lovemaking, Stulwig found himself  mentally
shaking his head ... Those  voluminous S'danzo skirts, he thought,  conceal more
than slender flesh - his sudden impression was that, in fact, Illyra was on  the
plump  side. And  that obviously  she wore  the skirts  to hide  a considerably
heavier body than she wanted onlookers to  know about. Not hard to do, with  her
face so thin and youthful.

No mind. She was a woman who had not been easy to capture.

And here  she was,  actually responding.  Interesting, also,  that her skin felt
unusually warm, almost as if she had a temperature.

He was coming to the climax. And so the size of her was temporarily blanked out.
Thus,  the awareness  of a  transformation of  her plump  body into  that of  an
Amazon, was like coming out of a glorious dream into a nightmare.

His sudden impossible impression: he was lying  on top of a woman over six  feet
tall, with hips that spread out beneath him at least a foot wider than he was.

His stunned thought, immediately spoken: 'Illyra, what is this? Some sorceress's
trick?'

In a single, sliding  motion he disengaged from  that massive female body.  Slid
off onto the floor. And scrambled to his feet.

As he did so there  was a flash of incredible  brightness. It lit up the  entire
room, revealing an oversized, strange, naked woman on his couch, sitting up now.

And revealing, also,  a man's huge  lighted figure coming  through a door  that,
before his father's death,  had been a private  entrance to Alten's bedroom.  It
was an entrance  that he had,  long ago now,  sealed up ...  Through it came the
shining figure into the bedroom. .

One incredulous  look was  all Stulwig  had time  for. And  many, many desperate
awarenesses: the glowing one, the being who shone with a fiery body brightness 
was Vashanka.

By the time he had that thought,  he had numbly grasped his stave. And,  moments
later, was backing naked through the doorway that led out to the greenhouse.

Inside the  bedroom a  god was  yelling in  a deep,  baritone voice  at the nude
Amazon, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed. And the Amazon was yelling
back in a voice  that was like that  of a male tenor.  They spoke in a  language
that was not Ilsig.

In his time Stulwig had learned several hundred basic medically useful words  in
half a dozen dialects of the Rankan  empire. So now, after a few familiar  words
had come through to him -suddenly, the truth.

The woman was Azyuma. And Vashanka was berating her for her infidelity. And  she
was yelling back, accusing him of similar infidelities with human women.

The revelation dazzled Stulwig. So the  gods, as had so often been  suggested in
vague  tales about  them, were  like humans  in their  physical needs.  Fleshly
contacts.  Angry arguments.  Perhaps even  intake of  food with  the consequent
digestion and elimination by stool and urination.

But much more important for this  situation was the intimate act she  had sought
with a  human male  ... Trust  a woman!  thought Stulwig.  Hating her incestuous
relationship. Degraded. Sad.  Hopeless. But  nevertheless jealous  when her  god
husband-brother went off to earth, and, as gods have done since the beginning of
time, lay with a human woman. Or two. Or a hundred.

So she had  got even. Had  taken the form  of a human  woman. And had  cunningly
enticed a male - this time, himself; three and a half years ago, his father - to
lie with her. Not too difficult to do in lustful Sanctuary.

And thus, Ten-Slayer, in his jealous rage, had become Eleven-Slayer - if  humans
like the elder Stulwig counted in the arithmetic of the divine ones.

Standing, now, in the centre of the greenhouse, with no way at all that he could
use as a quick escape (it always  required a fair time to unbarricade his  door)
Stulwig braced himself. Clutched his stave. And waited for he knew not what.

He grew aware, then, that the word battle in the bedroom had come to an  ending.
The woman was standing now, hastily wrapping the S'danzo skirts around her  huge
waist. That  was a  momentary revelation.  So such  skirts could  fit all female
sizes without alteration.

Moments later, the  woman came out.  She had three  of the filmy  scarfs wrapped
around her upper body. Her eyes  avoided looking at Stulwig as she  thudded past
him on bare feet. And then he heard her at the door, removing the barricade.

That brought  a sudden,  wild hope  to the  man. Perhaps,  if he  backed in that
direction, he also might make it through the doorway, once it was unblocked.

But his belief was: he dared not  move. Dared not turn his head. As  Stulwig had
that tense realization, the brightness - which had been slightly out of his line
of vision -  moved. There was  an awesome sound  of heavy, heavy  footsteps. And
then - Vashanka strode into view.

There was no question  in Stulwig's numbed mind.  What he was seeing,  suddenly,
was clearly a  sight not given  to many men  to observe so  close up. The Rankan
god, Vashanka. Maker of lightning in the sky. Master of weaponry. Killer of  ten
god-brothers. Murderer of Jutu Stulwig (father of Alton). The mighty being stood
now, poised in  the doorway leading  from the bedroom.  And he literally  had to
stoop down so that his head did not strike the top of the door jamb.

He was a massive figure whose every stretch  and fold of skin was lit up like  a
fire. The light that enveloped him from head to foot actually seemed to  nicker,
as if tiny tongues of white heat were burning there.

Those innumerable fires suffused the  greenhouse with a brightness greater  than
daylight.

Clearly, a human confronted by a god should not rely on force alone. At no  time
was that realization a coherent thought  in Stulwig's mind. But the awful  truth
of it was there in his muscles  and bones. Every movement he made reflected  the
reality of a man confronting an overwhelming power.

Most desperately, he wanted to be somewhere, far away.

Which was impossible. And so-

Stulwig heard  his voice  stuttering out  the first  meaning of  those defensive
thought-feelings: 'I'm innocent. I didn't know who she was.'

It  was  purpose  of  a  desperate  sort.  Avoid  this  incredible  situation by
explaining. Arguing. Proving.

The baleful eyes stared  at him after he  had spoken. If the  being behind those
eyes understood the words, there was no clear sign.

The man  stammered on:  'She came  as a  sorceress with  whom I  had arranged  a
rendezvous for this night. How could I know that it was a disguise?'

The  Ilsig  language,  suddenly,  did  not seem  to  be  a  sufficient  means of
communication.  Stulwig had  heard that  its verbal  structure was  despised by
Rankans who had  learned the speech  of the conquered  race. The verbs  - it was
said - were regarded by Rankans as lacking force. Whereas the conqueror's tongue
was alive with verbs that expressed intense feeling, absolute purpose, uttermost
determination.

Stulwig, fleetingly remembering those comparisons, had the thought: 'To Vashanka
it will seem as if I'm begging for mercy, whereas all I want is understanding.'

Feeling hopeless, the man clung to his stave.  It was all he had. So he held  it
up between  himself and  the great  fire-god. But  each passing  instant he  was
recalling what  Quag, the  Hell Hound,  had said  - about Ils having  failed his
people of Sanctuary.

Suddenly, it  was hard  to believe  that the  minor magic  of a  failed god,  as
projected into a wooden stick - however tough the wood -could withstand even one
blow from the mighty Vashanka.

As he had that  cringing thought, Stulwig grew  aware that the god  had extended
one  hand. Instantly,  the flame  of the  arm-hand grew  brighter. Abruptly,  it
leaped. And struck the stave.

Utter confusion of brightness.

And  confusion  in his  dazzled  eyes as  to  what was  happening,  or what  had
happened.

Only one thing was clear: the attack of the god against the man had begun.

He was still alive; that was Stulwig's first awareness. Alive with, now, a vague
memory of having  seen the  lightning strike  the stave.  And of  hearing a base
voiced braying sound. But of what exactly had happened at the moment of the fire
interacting with the stave there was no after-image in his eyes.

Uncertain,  still  somehow  clinging miraculously  to  the  stave, Stulwig  took
several  steps  backwards before  the  awful brightness  let  go of  his  vision
centres.    And   there,    striding   towards    him,   was    the   fire-god.
•'

Up came  the stave,  defensively. But  even as  he was  remembering the words of
Cappen Varra,  about holding  the stave  in front  of him,  Stulwig -  the stave
fighter - instinctively swung the stave in a hitting motion.

Swung it  at the  great being  less than  five feet  away. And  felt a momentary
savage surge of hope, as mighty Vashanka actually ducked to avoid the blow.

Stave fighting! He had done  a lot of it out  there in the wilderness, where  he
either tended  wild herbs,  or gathered  herbs for  his greenhouse.  Amazing how
often a wandering  nomad or two,  seeing him alone,  instantly unsheathed swords
and came in for the kill.

In such a battle  it would be deathly  dangerous merely to prod  with the stave.
Used as a prod, the stave could be snatched. At which, it was merely a tussle of
two men tugging for possession. And virtual certainty that some wild giant of  a
man would  swiftly wrestle  it away  from the  unwise person  who had mistakenly
tried to use it as if it also were a sword.

By Ils - thought a jubilant Stulwig -  there is power in this stave. And he, the
lightning-god, perceives it as dangerous.

With that realization,  he began to  swing with all  the force he  could muster:
whack, whack,  whack! Forgot  was Cappen  Varra's admonishment  to use the stave
only as a barrier.

It was fascinating -  and exciting - to  Stulwig to notice that  Vashanka jumped
back from the stave whenever it swung towards him. Once, the god actually leaped
way up to avoid being hit. The stave went by almost two foot-lengths beneath his
lowest extremity.

-But  why is  he staying?  Why isn't  he trying  to get  away if  the stave  is
dangerous to him? ...  That thought came suddenly,  and at once brought  a great
diminishment to Stulwig's battle impulse.

The  fear that  hit the  man abruptly  was that  there had  to be  a reason  why
Vashanka continued to fight by avoidance. Could it be that he expected the power
in the stave to wear off?

The awful possibility brought back the memory of what Ils-Cappen Varra had said.
The instant  shock of  what must  already have  happened to  the stave's defence
power sent  Stulwig backing  at top  speed towards  the hallway  leading to  the
stairs. He gulped with  joy, then, as he  glanced back for just  an instant, and
saw that the normally barricaded door had been left wide open by Azyuna.

With that, he  spun on his  heels, and almost  literally flung himself  down the
stairs, taking four, and once five, steps at a time. He came to the bottom. And,
mercifully, that door  also was open.  It had been  hard to see  as he made  his
"wild escape effort.

At that ultimate last moment, the entire stairwell suddenly lit up like day. And
there was instantly  no question but  that the demon-god  had belatedly arrived,
and was in hot pursuit.

Out in that night, so dark near his entrance, Stulwig ran madly to. the  nearest
corner. Darted around it. And then ran along the street until he came to a  main
thoroughfare. There he stopped, took up position with his back against a  closed
stall, and his stave in front of him.

Belated realization came that he was still stark naked.

There were people here even at this  late hour. Some of them looked at  Stulwig.
But almost everybody stopped and stared in the direction from which Stulwig  had
come - where a  great brightness shone into  the sky, visible above  a long, low
building with a dozen projecting towers.

Everywhere, now,  voices were  expressing amazement.  And then,  even as Stulwig
wondered  if  Vashanka  would  actually continue  his  pursuit  -  abruptly, the
brilliant light winked out.

It took a while, then, to gather his courage. But the feeling was: even though I
made the mistake of fighting, I won-

Returning took a while longer. Also,  the streets were darker again; and  so his
nakedness was  not so  obvious. Passersby  had to  come close  before, in a city
where so many were skimpily dressed, they  could see a naked man at night.  Thus
he was able to act cautiously, without shame.

Finally, then, holding his stave in front of him, Stulwig climbed the stairs  up
to his darkened quarters. Found the candle that was always lit (and replaced, of
course, at proper  intervals) at the  bottom of a  long tube in  his office. And
then, when he had made certain that the place was, indeed, free of intruders, he
hastily replaced the barricade.

A little later.

Stulwig lay sprawled on  his bed, unable to  sleep. He considered taking  one of
the herbs he normally prescribed for light sleepers. But that might send him off
into a drugged unconsciousness. And for this night that seemed a last resort.
Not to be done casually.

Lying there, tossing, he grew aware that there were sounds coming to him out  of
the night. Voices. Many voices. A crowd of voices.

Huh!

Up and over into  the greenhouse. First, removing  a shutter. And then,  looking
out and down.

The streets that he could see from his second floor were alive with torchlights.
And, everywhere, people.  Several times, as  passersby went beneath  his window,
Stulwig leaned out and called stentoriously: 'What is it? What's happening?'

From the replies that were yelled back,  totalling at least as many as he  could
count on the fingers of both hands, he was able to piece together the reason for
the celebration - for that was what it was.

The people of Sanctuary celebrating a victory.

What  had  occurred: beginning  shortly  after the  brilliance  of Vashanka  had
dwindled to darkness in a puff of vanishment, messengers began to run along  the
streets of the Maze and through all the lesser sections of the city.

The messengers were Jubal's spies and informants. And as a result of the message
they spread -

Myrtis's women whispered into the ears  of males, as each in turn  received that
for which he had paid. An electrifying piece of information it was, for the  men
flung on their clothes,  grabbed their weapons, and  charged off into the  night
distances of the Maze.

The worshippers at the  bar of the Vulgar  Unicorn suddenly drained their  cups.
And they, also,  took to their  heels - that  was the appearance.  An astonished
barkeeper ventured to the door. Peered out. And, hearing the pad of feet and the
rustle of clothing,  and seeing the  torches, hastily locked  up and joined  the
throngs that were streaming in one direction: towards the temple of Ils.

From his open shutter Stulwig could see the temple with its gilded dome. All the
portions  that he  could see  were lit  up, and  the light  was visible  through
numerous glass reflectors. A thousand  candles must be burning inside  for there
to be so many shining surfaces.

And inside the temple the priests were in a state of excitement. For the message
that Jubal's  informants carried  to all  Sanctuary was  that Ils had engaged in
battle with the lightning god of the Rankans, and had won.

There would be exultant worshipping until the hour of dawn: that was the meaning
that Stulwig had had shouted up to him.

As the  meaning finally  came to  him, Stulwig  hastily closed  the shutter. And
stood there, shivering. It was an inner cold, not an outer one. Was this wise? 
he wondered. Suppose  the people in  the palace came  out to learn  what all the
uproar was? Suppose Vashanka, in his rage at being made to appear a loser,  sent
his lightning bolts down upon the city.  Come to think of it, the sky  above had
already started to look very cloudy and threatening.

His  entire  body  throbbing with  anxiety,  Stulwig  nonetheless found  himself
accepting the celebration as justified. It  was true. Ils was the victor. And he
had deliberately sought the opportunity. So it could be that the ancient god  of
Ilsig was at long last ready for - what?

What could happen?  How could the  forces of the  Rankan empire be  persuaded to
depart from Sanctuary?

Stulwig was back in bed, the wonder and the mystery of it still seething  inside
him.

And he was still awake, later, when there came a gentle knock on his outer door.

Instant shock. Fear. Doubt. And then,  trembling, he was at the vent  asking the
question: 'Who is it?'

The  voice of  Illyra answered  softly, 'I  am here,  Alten, as  we agreed  this
morning, to pay my debt in kind.'

Long pause. Because  the doubt and  shock, and the  beginning of disappointment,
were  absolutely  intense. So  long  a pause  that  the woman  spoke  again: 'My
blacksmith, as you call him, has gone to  the temple of Ils and will not be back
until morning.'

On one  level -  the level  of his  desire -  it had  the ring of truth. But the
denying thought  was stronger.  Suppose this  was Azyuna,  forced by  her shamed
brother-lover to make one more entrance into the home of the healer; so that the
brother could use some mysterious  connection with her to penetrate  hard walls.
Then, when death had been dealt, Ils would again be disgraced.

Thinking thus, a reluctant Stulwig said, 'You are freed of your promise, Illyra.
Fate has worked once  more to deny me  one of the great  joys of life. And  once
more enabled you to remain faithful to that hulking monster.'

The healer uttered a long sigh; finished: 'Perhaps, I shall have better  fortune
next time.'

As he returned to his sheepskin he did have the male thought that a night when a
man made love to a goddess, could surely not be considered a total loss.

In fact-Remembering, suddenly, that the  affair had also included embracing,  in
its early stages, an Illyra look-alike, Stulwig began to relax. It was then that
sweet sleep came.



VASHANKA'S MINION
by Jante Morris

1

The storm swept down on Sanctuary in unnatural fury, as if to punish the thieves
for their misdeeds. Its hailstones  were large as fists. They  pummelled Wideway
and broke windows on the Street of Red Lanterns and collapsed the temple of Ils,
most powerful of the conquered Ilsigs' gods.

The lightning it brought  snapped up from the  hills and down from  the devilish
skies and wherever it spat the  world shuddered and rolled. It licked  round the
dome  of  Prince  Kadakithis's  palace  and when  it  was  gone,  the  Storm God
Vashanka's name was seared into the stone in huge hieratic letters visible  from
the harbour. It  slithered in the  window of Jubal's  walled estate and  circled
round the slavetrader's chair  while he sat in  it, turning his black  face blue
with terror.

It danced  on a  high hill  between the  slaver's estate  and the cowering town,
where a  mercenary named  Tempus schooled  his new  Syrese horse  in the  art of
death. He had bought the tarnished  silver beast sight unseen, sending to  a man
whose father's life he had once saved.

'Easy,' he advised the horse, who slipped in a sharp turn, throwing mud up  into
his rider's face. Tempus cursed the mud and the rain and the hours he would need
to spend on his tack when the  lesson was done. As for the screaming,  stumbling
hawk-masked man who fled iron-shod hooves in ever-shortening circles, he had  no
gods to invoke - he just howled.

The horse  wheeled and  hopped; its  rider clung  tightly, reins flapping loose,
using only his knees to guide his  mount. If the slaver who kept a  private army
must flaunt the fact, then  the mercenary-cum-Guardsman would reduce its  ranks.
He would teach Jubal the overweening flesh merchant that he who is too arrogant,
is lost. He saw it as part of his duty to the Ranke Prince-Governor he was sworn
to  protect. Tempus  had taken  down a  dozen hawk-masks.  This one,  stumbling,
gibbering, would make thirteen.

'Kill,' suggested the mercenary, tiring of his sport in the face of the storm.

The flattened ears of the misty horse flickered, came forwards. It lunged,  neck
out. Teeth and hooves thunked into flesh. Screaming. Then screaming stopped.

Tempus let the  horse pummel the  corpse awhile, stroking  the beast's neck  and
cooing soft praise. When bones showed in a lightning flash, he backed the  horse
off and set it at a walk towards the walled city.

It was then that the lightning- came circling round man and mount.

'Stand, stand.'  The horse,  though he  shook like  a newborn  foal, stood.  The
searing red light violated Tempus's tight-shut  lids and made his eyes tear.  An
awful voice rang inside his head, deep and thunderous: ' You are mine.'

'I have never doubted it,' grated the mercenary.

'You have doubted it repeatedly,' growled the voice querulously, if thunder  can
be said to carp. ' You have  been unruly, faithless, though you pledged Me  your
troth.  You  have  been,  since  you  renounced  your  inheritance,  a  mage,  a
philosopher, an auditing Adept of the Order of the Blue Star, a-'

'Look here.  God. I  have also  been a  cuckold, a  footsoldier in  the ranks, a
general at the end of that. I have bedded more iron in flesh than any ten  other
men who have lived as long as I. Now You ring me round with thunder and  compass
me with lightning though I am here to expand Your worship among these  infidels.
I am  building Your  accursed temple  as fast  as I  can. I  am no priest, to be
terrified by  loud words  and bright  manifestations. Get  Thee hence, and leave
this slum unenlightened. They do not deserve me, and they do not deserve You!'

A gust sighed fiercely, flapping Tempus's woollens against his mail beneath.

'I have sent  you hither to  build Me a  temple among the  heathens, 0 sleepless
one! A temple you will build!'

'A temple I will build. Yes, sir,  Vashanka, lord of the Edge and the  Point. If
You leave me alone to  do it.' Damn pushy tutelary  god. 'You blind my horse,  0
God, and I  will put him  under Your threshold  instead of the  enemies slain in
battle Your ritual demands. Then we will see who comes to worship there.'

'Do not trifle with Me, Man.'

'Then let me be. I am doing the best I can. There is no room for foreign gods in
the hearts of these Sanctuarites. The Ilsig gods they were born under have  seen
to that. Do something amazing: strike the fear of You into them.'

'I cannot even make you cower, 0 impudent human!'

'Even Your visitations get  old, after three hundred  and fifty years. Go  scare
the locals. This horse will founder, standing hot in the rain.'

The thunder changed its  tune, becoming canny. 'Go  you to the harbour.  My son,
and look upon what My Majesty hath wrought! And into the Maze, where I am making
My power known!'

With that, the corral of lightning vanished, the thunder ceased, and the  clouds
blew away on a west wind, so that the full moon shone upon the land.

'Too much krrf,'  the mercenary who  had sold himself  for a Hell  Hound sighed.
'Hell Hound' was what the citizenry called the Prince's Guard; as far as  Tempus
was concerned.  Sanctuary was  Hell. The  only thing  that made  it bearable was
krrf, his drug of choice. Rubbing a clammy palm across his mouth, he dug in  his
human-hide belt  until searching  fingers found  a little  silver box  he always
carried. Flipping it open, he took a pinch of black Caronne krrf and,  clenching
his fist, piled the dust into the  hollow between his first thumb joint and  the
fleshy muscle leading  to his knuckle.  He sniffed deeply,  sighed, and repeated
the process, inundating his other nostril.

'Too much damn krrf,' he chuckled, for  the krrf had never been stepped on  - he
did not buy adulterated drugs - and all six and a half feet of him tingled  from
its kiss. One of  these days he would  have to stop using  it - the same  day he
laid down his sword.

He felt for  its hilt,  patted it.  He had  taken to  calling it his 'Wriggly-be
good', since he had come to this godforsaken warren of magicians and changelings
and thieves. Then,  the initial euphoria  of the drug  past, he kneed  his horse
homewards.

It was the krrf, not the instructions of the lightning or any fear of  Vashanka,
that made him  go by way  of the harbour.  He was walking  out his horse  before
taking it to the stable the Hell Hounds shared with the barracks personnel. What
had ever possessed him to come down-country among the Ilsigs? It was not for his
fee, which was exorbitant, that he had come, for the sake of those interests  in
the Rankan capital who underwrote him - those who hated the Emperor so much that
they were  willing to  back such  a loser  as Kadakithis,  if they  could do  it
without becoming the brunt of too many jokes. It was not for the temple,  though
he was pleased to build  it. It was some old,  residual empathy in Tempus for  a
prince so inept as to be known far and wide as 'Kitty' which had made him  come.
Tempus  had walked  away from  his primogeniture  in Azehur,  a long  time ago,
leaving the throne to his brother,  who was not compromised by palace  politics.
He had deposited a treatise on the  nature of being in the temple of  a favoured
goddess, and he had left. Had he ever, really, been that young? Young as  Prince
Kadakithis, whom even the Wrigglies disparaged?

Tempus had  been around  in the  days when  (he Ilsigs  had been  the Enemy: the
Wrigglies. He had been on every battlefield in the Rankan/Ilsig conflict. He had
spitted more Ilsigs  than most men,  watched them writhe  soundlessly until they
died. Some said he had coined their derogatory nickname, but he had not,  though
he had doubtless helped spread it...

He rode down Wideway, and  he rode past the docks.  A ship was being made  fast,
and a crowd  had gathered round  it. He squeezed  the horse's barrel,  urging it
into the press.  With only four  of his fellow  Hell Hounds in  Sanctuary, and a
local garrison whose personnel never ventured out in groups of less than six, it
was incumbent upon him to take a look.

He did not  like what  he saw  of the  man who  was being  helped from the storm
wracked  ship  that had  come  miraculously to  port  with no  sail  intact, who
murmured through pale cruel lips to the surrounding Ilsigs, then climbed into  a
Rankan litter bound for the palace.

He spurred  the horse.  'Who?' he  demanded of  the eunuch-master  whose path he
suddenly barred.

'Aspect,  the archmage,'  lisped the  palace lackey,  'if it's  any business  of
yours.'

Behind the  lackey and  the quartet  of ebony  slaves the  shoulder-borne litter
trembled. The viewcurtain with Kitty's device  on it was drawn back, fell  loose
again.

'Out of my way. Hound,' squeaked the enraged little pastry of a eunuch-master.

'Don't get flapped, Eunice,' said Tempus, wishing he were in Caronne, wishing he
had never met a god, wishing he were anywhere else. Oh, Kitty, you have done  it
this  time.  Alain  Aspect,   yet!  Alchemist  extraordinaire,  assassin   among
magicians, dispeller of enchantments, in a town that ran on contract sorcery?

'Back, back, back,' he  counselled the horse, who  twitched its ears and  turned
its head around reproachfully, but obeyed him.

He heard titters among the eunuchs, another behind in the crowd. He swung  round
in his saddle. 'Hakiem,  if I hear any  stories about me I  do not like, I  will
know whose tongue to hang on my belt.'

The  bent,  news-nosed  storyteller,  standing  amid  the  children  who  always
clustered round him, stopped laughing. His  rheumy eyes met Tempus's. 'I have  a
story I would like to tell you. Hell Hound. One you would like to hear, I humbly
imagine.'

'What is it, then, old man?'

'Come closer. Hell Hound, and say what you will pay.'

'How can I tell you how much it's worth until I hear?' The horse snorted, raised
his head, sniffed a rank, evil  breeze come suddenly from the stinking  Downwind
beach.

'We must haggle.'

'Somebody else, then, old man. I have a long night ahead.' He patted the  horse,
watching the crowd ofllsigs surging round, their heads level with his hips.

'That is the first  time I have seen  him backed off!': a  stage-whisper reached
Tempus through the buzz of the crowd. He looked for the source of it, could  not
find one culprit more likely  than the rest. There would  be a lot more of  that
sort of talk, when word spread.  But he did not interfere with  sorcerers. Never
again. He had  done it once,  thinking his tutelary  god could protect  him. His
hand went to his hip,  squeezed. Beneath his dun  woollens and beneath his  ring
mail he wore  a woman's scarf.  He never took  it off. It  was faded and  it was
ragged and it reminded him never to argue with a warlock. It was all he had left
of her, who had been the subject of his dispute with a mage.

Long ago in Azehur...

He  sighed,  a rattling  sound,  in a  voice  hoarse and  gravelly  from endless
battlefield commands.  'Have it  your way  tonight, then,  Wriggly. And hope you
live  'til  morning.' He  named  a price.  The  storyteller named  another.  The
difference was split.

The old man came close and put his hand on the horse's neck. 'The lightning came
and the thunder rolled and when it was gone the  temple of Ils was no  more. The
Prince has bought the  aid of a mighty  enchanter, whom even the  bravest of the
Hell  Hounds  fears.  A woman  was  washed  up naked  and  half  drowned on  the
Downwinders' beach and in her hair were pins of diamond.'

'Pins?'

'Rods, then.'

'Wonderful. What else?'

'The redhead from Amoli's Lily Garden died at moonrise.'

He knew very well what  whore the old man meant.  He did not like the  story, so
far.  He  growled. 'You  had  better astound  me,  quick, for  the  price you're
asking.'

'Between the Vulgar Unicorn  and the tenement on  the corner an entire  building
appeared on that  vacant lot, where  once the Black  Spire stood -  you know the
one.'

'I know it.'

'Astounding?'

'Interesting. What else?'

'It is rather fancy, with  a gilded dome. It has  two doors, and above them  two
signs that read, "Men", and "Women".'

Vashanka had kept his word, then.

'Inside it, so the patrons of  the Unicorn say, they sell weapons.  Very special
weapons. And the price is dear.'

'What has this to do with me?'

' Some folk who have gone in there have not come out. And some have come out and
turned  one  upon the  other,  duelling to  the  death. Some  have  merely slain
whomsoever crossed  their paths.  Yet, word  is spreading,  and Ilsig and Rankan
queue up like brothers before its  doors. Since some of those who  were standing
in line were hawk-masks, I thought it good that you should know.'

'I am touched, old man. I had no  idea you cared.' He threw the copper coins  to
the storyteller's feet and reined the horse sideways so abruptly it reared. When
its feet touched the ground, he set it at a collected canter through the  crowd,
letting the rabble scatter before its iron-shod hooves as best they might.


2

In Sanctuary, enchantment ruled. No sorcerer believed in gods. But they believed
in the  Law of  Correspondences, and  they believed  in evil.  Thus, since every
negative must have its  positive, they implied gods.  Give a god an  inch and he
will  take  your  soul.  That  was  what  the  commoners  and  the   second-rate
prestidigitators lined up  outside the Weaponshop  of Vashanka did  not realize,
and that was why no respectable  magician or Hazard Class Enchanter stood  among
them.

In they filed, men  to Tempus's left, towards  the Vulgar Unicorn, and  women to
his right, towards the tenement on the corner.

Personally, Tempus did not feel  it wise or dignified for  a god to engage in  a
commercial venture. From across the street, he took notes on who came and went.

Tempus was not sure whether he was going in there, or not.

A shadow joined the queue, disengaged, walked towards the Vulgar Unicorn in  the
tricky light of fading stars. It saw him, hesitated, took one step back.

Tempus leaned forwards, his elbow on his pommel, and crooked a finger. 'Hanse, I
would like a word with you.'

The youth  cat-walked towards  him, errant  torch-light from  the Unicorn's open
door twinkling on his weapons. From ankle to shoulder, Shadowspawn bristled with
armaments.

'What is it  with you, Tempus?  Always on my  tail. There are  bigger frogs than
this one in Sanctuary's pond.'

'Are you not going to buy anything tonight?'

'I'll make do with what I have, thanks. I do not swithe with sorcerers.'

'Steal something  for me?'  Tempus whispered,  leaning down.  The boy  had black
hair, black eyes, and blacker prospects in this desperadoes' demesne.

'I'm listening.'

' Two diamond rods from the lady who came out of the sea tonight.'

'Why?'

'I won't ask you how, and you won't  ask me why, or we'll forget it.' He  sat up
straight in his saddle.

'Forget it, then,'  toughed Shadowspawn, deciding  he wanted nothing  to do with
this Hell Hound.

'Call it a prank, a jest at the expense of an old girlfriend.'

The thief edged around where Tempus could not see him, into a dapple of  deepest
dark. He named a price.

The Hell Hound did not argue. Rather, he paid half in advance.

'I've  heard you  don't really  work for  Kitty. I've  heard your  dues to  the
mercenaries' guild are  right up to  date, and that  Kitty knows better  than to
give you any orders. If you are not arguing about my price, it must be too low.'

Silence.

'Is it true that you  roughed up that whore who  died tonight? That Amoli is  so
afraid of you that you do whatever you want in her place and never pay?'

Tempus chuckled, a sound like the cracking  of dry ice. 'I will take you  there,
when you deliver, and you can see for yourself what I do.'

There was no answer from the shadows, just a skittering of stones.

Yes, I will take you there, young one. And yes, you are right. About everything.
You should have asked for more.


3

Tempus lingered there  still, eating a  boxed lunch from  the Unicorn's kitchen,
when  a voice  from above  his head  said, 'The  deal is  off. That  girl is  a
sorceress, if  a pretty  one. I'll  not chance  ensorcel-ment to  lift baubles I
don't covet, and for a pittance!'

Girl? The  woman was  nearly his  own age,  unless another  set of  diamond rods
existed, and he doubted that. He yawned, not reaching up to take the purse  that
dangled over  the lee  of the  roof, 'I  am disappointed.  I thought Shadowspawn
could steal.'

The innuendo was not  lost on the invisible  thief. The purse was  withdrawn. An
impalpable something told him  he was once again  alone, but for the  clients of
Vashanka's Weaponshop.  Things would  be interesting  in Sanctuary,  for a  good
little while to come. He had  counted twenty-three purchasers able to walk  away
with their mystical armaments. Four had died while he watched, intrigued.

It was possible that a career  Hell Hound such as Zaibar might  have intervened.
But Tempus wore Vashanka's amulet about his neck, and, if he did not agree  with
Him, he would at least bear with his god.

The woman he was waiting  for showed there at dusk.  He liked dusk; he liked  it
for killing and he liked it for loving. Sometimes if he was very lucky, the dusk
made him tired and he  could nap. A man who  has been cursed by an  archmage and
pressed into service by a god does not sleep much. Sleep was something he chased
like other  men chased  women. Women,  in general,  bored him,  unless they were
taken in battle, or unless they were whores.

This  woman,  her  black  hair  brushing  her  doeskin-clad  shoulders,  was  an
exception.

He called her name, very softly. Then again: 'Cime.' She turned, and at last  he
was sure. He had thought Hakiem could mean no other: he had not been wrong.

Her eyes were grey as his horse.  Silver shot her hair, but she was  yet comely.
Her hands rose, hesitated, covered a mouth pretending to hardness and tight with
fear. He recognized the aborted motion other hands: towards her head,  forgetful
that the rods she sought were no longer there.

He did not move in his saddle, or speak again. He let her decide, glance quickly
about the street, then come to him.

When her hand touched the horse's bridle, he said: 'It bites.'

'Because you taught  it to. It  will not bite  me.' She held  it by the  muzzle,
squeezing the pressure  points that rode  the skin there.  The horse raised  his
head slightly, moaned, and stood shivering.

'What seek you  in there?' He  inclined his head  towards Vashanka's; a  lock of
copper hair fell over one eye.

'The tools of my trade were stolen.'

'Have you money?'

'Some. Not enough.'

'Come with me.'

'Never again.'

'You have kept your vow, then?'

'I slay sorcerers. I cannot suffer any  man to touch me except a client.  I dare
no love; I am chaste of heart.'

'All these aching years?'

She smiled. It  pulled her mouth  in hard at  its corners and  he saw ageing  no
potion or cosmetic spell could hide. 'Every  one. And you? You did not take  the
Blue Star, or I would see it on your brow. What discipline serves your will?'

'None. Revenge is fruitless. The  past is only alive in  us. I am not meant  for
sorcery. I love logic too well.'

'So, you are yet damned?'

'If that  is what  you call  it, I  suppose -  yes. I  work for  the Storm  God,
sometimes. I do a lot of wars.'

'What brought you here, Cle-'

'Tempus, now. It keeps  me in perspective. I  am building a temple  for Him.' He
pointed to Vashanka's Weaponshop, across the street. His finger shook. He  hoped
she had not seen. 'You must not ply your trade here. I have employment as a Hell
Hound. Appearances  must be  preserved. Do  not pit  us against  one another. It
would be too sour a memory.'

'For whomever  survived? Can  it be  you love  me still?'  Her eyes were full of
wonder.

'No,' he said, but  cleared his throat. 'Stay  out of there. I  know His service
well. I would not recommend it. I will get you back what you have lost. Meet  me
at the Lily Garden tonight at midnight, and you will have them. I promise.  Just
take down no sorcerers between now and then. If you do, I will not return  them,
and you cannot get others.'

'Bitter, are you not? If I do what you are too weak to do, what harm is there in
that?' Her right eyebrow raised. It hurt him to watch her.

'We are the harm. And we are the harmed, as well. I am afraid that you may  have
to break your  fast, so be  prepared. I will  reason with myself,  but I promise
nothing.'

She sighed. 'I was wrong. You have not changed one bit.'

'Let go of my horse.'

She did.

He wanted to tell her to let go of his heart, but he was struck mute. He wheeled
his mount and clattered down the street. He had no intention of leaving. He just
waited in a nearby alley until she was gone.

Then he hailed a passing soldier, and sent a message to the palace.

When the sun danced above the Vulgar Unicorn's improbably engaged weather  vane,
support troops arrived, and Kadakithis's new warlock. Aspect, was with them.

'Since last night, and this is the first report you have seen -fit to make?' The
sorcerer's pale lips flushed. His eyes burned within his shadowed cowl.

'I hope you and Kadakithis had a talk.'

'We did, we did. You are not still angry at the world after all these years?'

'I am yet living. I have your kind to blame or thank, whichever.'

'Do you not think it strange that we have been thrown together as - equals?'

'I think that is not the right word for it. Aspect. What are you about, here?'

'Now, now. Hell Hound-'          .''

'Tempus.'

'Yes, Tempus.  You have  not lost  your fabled  sense of  irony. I  hope it is a
comfort.'

'Quite, actually. Do not interfere with the gods, guildbrother of my nemesis.'

'Our prince is justifiably worried. Those weapons-'

'-equal  out the  balance between  the oppressors  and the  oppressed. Most  of
Sanctuary  cannot afford  your services,  or the  prices of  even the  lowliest
members of the Enchanters'  Guild. Let it be.  We will get the  weapons back, as
their wielders meet their fates.'

'I have to report to Kitt - to K-adakithis.'

'Then report that I am handling it.' Behind the magician, he could see the ranks
whispering. Thirty men, the archmage had brought. Too many.

'You and I have more in common than in dispute, Tempus. Let us join forces.'

'I would sooner bed an Ilsig matron.'

'Well, I am going in there.' The archmage shook his head and the cowl fell back.
He was pretty, ageless, a blond. 'With or without you.'

'Be my guest,' Tempus offered.

The archmage looked at him strangely. 'We do the same services in the world, you
and I. Killing, whether with natural or supernatural weapons, is still  killing.
You are no better than I.'

'Assuredly not, except that I will outlive you. And I will make sure you do  not
get your requisite burial ritual.'

'You would not!'

'Like you said, I yet bear my grudge - against every one of you.'

With a curse that  made the ranks clap  their hands to their  helmeted ears, the
archmage swished into the street, across  it, and through the door marked  'Men'
without another word. It was his motioned command which made the troops follow.

A waitress Tempus knew came out when the gibbous moon was high, to ask him if he
was hungry. She brought him fish and he ate it, watching the doors.

When  he had  just about  finished, a  terrible rumble  crawled up  the street,
tremors following in its wake. He slid  from his horse and held its muzzle,  and
the reins up under  its bit. The doors  of Vashanka's Weaponshop grew  shimmery,
began taking colour.  Above, the moon  went behind a  cloud. The little  dome on
the" shop rocked,  grew cracks, crazed,  steamed. The doors  were ruby red,  and
melting. Awful wails and screams and  the smell of sulphur and ozone  filled the
night.

Patrons began streaming out of the  Vulgar Unicorn, drinks in hand. They  stayed
well back from the rocking building, which howled as it stressed larger, growing
turgid, effluescing spectrums which sheeted  and snapped and snarled. The  doors
went molten white,  then they were  gone. A figure  was limned in  the left-hand
doorway, and it was trying to climb empty air. It flamed and screeched, dancing,
crumbling, facing the  street but unable  to pass the  invisible barrier against
which it pounded. It stank: the smell of roasting flesh was overwhelming. Behind
it,  helmets crumpled,  dripped on  to the  contorted faces  of soldiers  whose
moustaches had begun to flare.

The mage who tried to break down the invisible door had no fists; he had pounded
them away. The  ranks were char  and ash in  infalling effigy of  damnation. The
doors which had  been invisible began  to cool to  white, then to  gold, then to
red.

The street was utterly silent. Only the  snorts of his horse and the squeals  of
the domed structure could be heard. The squeals fell off to growls and shudders.
The doors cooled, turned dark.

People muttered, drifted  back into the  Unicorn with mumbled  wardings, tracing
signs and taking many backward looks.

Tempus, who could have saved  thirty innocent soldiers and one  guilty magician,
got out his silver box and sniffed some krrf.

He had to be at the Lily Garden soon.

When he got there, the mixed elation of drug and death had faded.

What if Shadowspawn did not appear with the rods? What if the girl Cime did  not
come to get them back? What if he still could hurt, as he had not hurt for  more
than three hundred years?

He had had a message from the palace, from Prince Kadakithis himself. He was not
going up  there, just  yet. He  did not  want to  answer any questions about the
archmage's demise. He did not want  to appear involved. His only chance  to help
the  Prince-Governor effectively  lay in  working his  own way.  Those were  his
terms,  and under  those terms  Kitty's supporters  in the  Rankan capital  had
employed him to  come down here  and play Hell  Hound and see  what he would do.
There were no wars, anywhere. He had  been bored, his days stretching out  never
ending, bleak. So he had concerned himself with Kitty, for something to do.  The
building of Vashanka's temple he  oversaw for himself more than  Kadakithis, who
understood the necessity of elevating the  state cult above the Ilsig gods,  but
believed only in wizardry, and his noble Ranke blood.

He was not happy about the spectacle at Vashanka's Weapon-shop. Sloppy business,
this side-show melting and unmelting.  The archmage must have been  talented, to
make his struggles visible to those outside.

Wisdom is  to know  the thought  which steers  all things  through all things, a
friend of his who was a philosopher  had once said to him. The thought  that was
steering all things through Sanctuary was muddled, unclear.

That was the hitch, the catch, the problem with employing the supernatural in  a
natural milieu. Things got confused. With so many spells at work, the fabric  of
causality was overly strained. Add the gods, and Evil and Good faced each  other
across a board game  whose extent was the  phenomenal world. He wished  the gods
would stay in their heavens and the sorcerers in their hells.

Oh, he had heard endless persiflage about simultaneity; iteration - the constant
redefining of the  now by checking  it against the  future-; alchemical laws  of
consonance. When he had been a student of philosophy and Cime had been a maiden,
he had learned  the axiom that  Mind is unlimited  and self-controlled, but  all
other things are  connected; that nothing  is completely separated  off from any
other thing, nor are things divided one from the other, except Mind.

The sorcerers put it  another way: they called  the consciousness of all  things
into service, according to the laws of magic.

Not philosophy, nor theology, nor thaumaturgy held the answer for Tempus; he had
turned  away from  them, each  and all.  But he  could not  forget what  he had
learned.

And none  of the  adepts like  to admit  that no  servitor can  be hired without
wages. The wages of unnatural life are unnatural death.

He wished he  could wake up  in Azehur, with  his family, and  know that he  had
dreamed this impious dream.

But instead  he came  to Amoli's  whorehouse, the  Lily Garden.  Almost, but not
quite, he rode the horse up  its stairs. Resisting the temptation, he  reflected
that in every  age he had  ever studied, doom-criers  abounded. No millenium  is
attractive  to  the man  immured  in it;  enough  prophecies have  been  made in
antiquity that one who desires, in any age, to take the position that Apocalypse
is at hand can easily defend it. He would not join that dour Order; he would not
worry about anything but Tempus, and the matter awaiting his attention.

Inside Amoli's, Hanse the  thief sat in full  swagger, a pubescent girl  on each
knee.

'Ah,' he waved. 'I have something  for you.' Shadowspawn tumbled both girls  off
of  him, and  stood, stretching  widely, so  that every  arm-dagger and  belted
sticker and  thigh-sheath creaked  softly. The  girls at  his feet stayed there,
staring up at  Tempus wide-eyed. One  whimpered to Shadowspawn  and clutched his
thigh.

'Room key,' Tempus snapped to no one  in particular, and held out his hand.  The
concierge, not Amoli, brought it to him.

'Hanse?'

'Coming.' He extended a hand to one girl.

'Alone.'

'You are not my type,' said the thief, suspicious.

'I need just a moment of your evening. You can do what you wish with the rest.'

Tempus looked at  the key, headed  off towards a  staircase leading to  the room
which bore a corresponding number.

He heard the soft tread of Shadowspawn close behind.

When the exchange  had been made,  the thief departed,  satisfied with both  his
payment and his gratuity, but not quite sure that Tempus appreciated the trouble
to which he had put himself, or that he had got the best of the bargain they had
made.

He saw the woman he had robbed before  she saw him, and ended up in a  different
girl's room than the one he had chosen,  in order to avoid a scene. When he  had
heard her steps pass  by, stop before the  door behind which the  big Hell Hound
waited, he made preclusive threats to the woman whose mouth he had stopped  with
the flat of his hand, and slipped downstairs to spend his money somewhere  else,
discreetly.

If he  had stayed,  he might  have found  out what  the diamond rods were really
worth; he might have found out what the sour-eyed mercenary with his high  brow,
suddenly so deeply creased, and  his lightly carried mass, which  seemed tonight
too  heavy,  was worried  about.  Or perhaps  he  could have  fathomed  Tempus's
enigmatic parting words: 'I would help you if I could, backstreeter,' Tempus had
rumbled.

'If I had met you long ago, or if you liked horses, there would be a chance. You
have done me  a great service.  More than that  pouch holds. I  am seldom in any
man's debt, but you, I own, can call me anytime.'

'You  paid  me. Hell  Hound.  I am  content,'  Hanse had  demurred,  confused by
weakness where he had never imagined it might dwell. Then he saw the Hell  Hound
fish out a snuffbox of krrf, and thought he understood.

But later, he went back to Amoli's and hung around the steps, cautiously petting
the big man's  horse, the krrf  he had sniffed  making him willing  to dodge the
beast's square, yellow teeth.


4

She had come to him, had Cime. She was what she was, what she had always been.

It was Tempus who was changed: Vashanka had entered into him, the Storm God  who
was Lord of Weapons  who was Lord of  Rape who was Lord  of War who was  Lord of
Death's Gate.

He could not take her, gently. So spoke not his physical impotence, as he  might
have expected, but the cold wash  of wisdom: he would not despoil  her; Vashanka
would accept no less.

She knocked and entered and said, 'Let  me see them,' so sure he would  have the
stolen diamonds that her fingers were  already busy on the lacings of  her Ilsig
leathers.

He held  up a  hide-wrapped bundle,  slimmer than  her wrist,  shorter than  her
forearm. 'Here. How were they thieved?'

'Your voice is hoarser than I have  ever heard it,' she replied, and: 'I  needed
money; there was this man ... actually, there were a few, but there was a tough,
a streetbrawler. I should  have known - he  is half my apparent  age. What would
such as  he want  with a  middle-aged whore?  And he  agreed to  pay the price I
asked, without quibbling. Then he robbed me.' She looked around, her eyes, as he
remembered them, clear windows to her thoughts. She was appalled.

'The low estate into which I have sunk?'

She knew what he meant. Her nostrils  shivered, taking in the musty reek of  the
soiled bedding on which he sprawled fully clothed, smelling easily as foul. 'The
devolution of  us both.  That I  would be  here, under  these circumstances,  is
surely as pathetic as you.'

'Thanks. I needed that. Don't.'

'I thought you wanted me.' She ceased unlacing, looked at him, her tunic open to
her waist.

'I did. I don't.  Have some krrf.' On  his hips rode her  scarf; if she saw  it,
then she would comprehend his degradation  too fully. So he had not  removed it,
hoping its presence would remind him, if he weakened and his thoughts drowned in
lust, that this woman he must not violate.

She sat on the quilt, one doe-gloved leg tucked under her.

'You jest,' she breathed, then, eyes narrowed, took the krrf.

'It will be ill with you, afterwards, should I touch you.'

Her fingers ran along the flap of  hide wrapped over her wands. 'I am  receiving
payment.' She tapped the package. 'And I may not owe debts.'

'The boy who pilfered these, did it at my behest.'

'Must you pander for me?'

He winced.  'Why do  you not  go home?'  She smelled  of salt  and honey  and he
thought desperately that she was here  only because he forced the issue:  to pay
her debt.

She leaned forwards, touched his lips  with a finger. 'For the same  reason that
you do not. Home is changed, gone to time.'

'Do you  know that?'  He jerked  his head-away,  cracking it  against the  bed's
wooden headboard.

'I believe it.'

'I cannot believe anything, any more. I surely cannot believe that your hand  is
saying what it seems to be saying.'

'I cannot,' she said, between kisses  at his throat he could not,  somehow, fend
off, 'leave ... with ... debts ... owing.'

'Sorry,' he said firmly, and got out from under her hands. 'I am just not in the
mood.'

She shrugged, unwrapped the wands, and wound her hair up with them. 'Surely, you
will regret this, later.'

'Maybe you are right,' he sighed heavily. 'But that is my problem. I release you
from any debt. We are even. I remember past gifts, given when you still knew how
to give freely.'  There was no  way in the  world he was  going to hurt  her. He
would not strip  before her. With  those two constraints,  he had no  option. He
chased her out of there. He was as cruel about it as he could manage to be,  for
both their sakes.

Then he yelled downstairs for service.

When he descended the steps in the  cool night air, a movement startled him,  on
the grey's off side.

'It is me, Shadowspawn.'

'It is I, Shadowspawn,' he corrected, huskily. His face averted, he mounted from
the wrong side. The horse whickered disapprovingly. 'What is it, snipe?'

As clouds covered the moon, Tempus seemed to pull all night's shadows round him.
Hanse might have the name, but this Tempus had the skill. Hanse shivered.  There
were no Shadow Lords any  longer ... 'I was  admiring your horse. Bunch  of hawk
masks rode by, saw the horse, looked interested. I looked proprietary. The horse
looked mean.  The hawk-masks  rode away.  I just  thought I'd  see if you showed
soon, and let you know.'

A movement at the edge  of his field of vision  warned him, even as the  horse's
ears twitched at  the click of  iron on stone.  'You should have  kept going, it
seems,' said Tempus quietly, as the first of the hawk-masks edged his horse  out
past the intersection, and others followed. Two. Three. Four. Two more.

'Mothers,'  whispered  Cudgel  Swearoath's prodigy,  embarrassed  at  not having
realized that he was not the only one waiting for Tempus.

'This is not your fight, junior.'

'I'm aware of that. Let's see if they are.'

Blue night: blue hawk-masks: the sparking thunder of six sets of hooves  rushing
towards the  two of  them. Whickering.  The gleam  of frothing  teeth and  bared
weapons: iron clanging  in a  jumble of  shuddering, straining  horses. The kill
trained grey's challenge to another stallion: hooves thudding on flesh and great
mouths gaped, snapping; a blaring  death-clarion from a horse whose  jugular had
been severed. Always watching the  boy: keeping the grey between  the hawk-masks
and a thief who just happened to get involved; who just happened to kill two  of
them with  thrown knives,  one through  an eye  and the  other blade he recalled
clearly, sticking  out of  a slug-white  throat. Tempus  would remember even the
whores' ambivalent  screams of  thrill and  horror, delight  and disgust. He had
plenty of time to sort it out: Time  to draw his own sword, to target the  rider
of his choice, feel his  hilt  go warm and pulsing  in his hand. He  really  did
not like to  take unfair  advantage.  The iron sword  glowed pink like  a baby's
skin or  a just-born  day. Then  it  began  to react   in his  grip. The  grey's
reins,  wrapped around  the pommel,  flapped loosely; he told it where he wanted
it with gritted words, with a pressing knee, with his shifting weight. One  hawk
-mask had a greenish tinge to  him:  protected. Tempus's sword would not  listen
to  such talk:  it slit  charms like  butter, armour  like silk.  A blue   wing
whistled  above his   head, thrown  by a   compatriot of  the man  who  fell  so
slowly with  his guts  pouring out  over his  saddle like cold molasses.   While
that  hawk-mask's horse   was in  mid-air  between  two strides,  Tempus's sword
licked  up and changed  the colour of  the foe-seeking boomerang. Pink, now, not
blue. He was content to let it return its death to the hand  that threw it. That
left just two.

One had  the thief  engaged, and  the youth  had drawn  his wicked,  twenty-inch
Ibarsi knife, too  short to be  more than a  temporizer against the  hawk-mask's
sword, too broad to be thrown. Backed against the Lily Garden's wall, there  was
just time for Tempus to flicker  the horse over there and split  the hawk-mask's
head down to  his collarbones. Grey  brains splattered him..  The thrust of  the
hawk-mask, undiminished  by death,  shattered on  the flat  of the  long, curved
knife Shadowspawn held up in a two-fisted, desperate block.

'Behind you!'

Tempus had known the  one last hawk-mask was  there. But this was  not the boy's
battle. Tempus  had made  a choice.  He ducked  and threw  his weight  sideways,
reining the horse down  with all his might.  The sword, a singing  one, sonata'd
over his head, shearing hairs. His horse, overbalanced, fell heavily, screaming,
pitching,  rolling  onto his  left  leg. Pinned  for  an instant,  he  saw white
anguish, then the last  hawk-mask was leaping down  to finish him, and  the grey
scrambled to its feet. 'Kill,' he shouted, his blade yet at ready, but lying  in
the dirt.  His leg  flared once  again, then  quieted. He  tried it,  gained his
knees, dust  in his  eyes. The  horse reared  and lunged.  The hawk-mask  struck
blindly, arms above his head, sword reaching for grey, soft underbelly. He tried
to save it. He tried. He tackled the hawk-mask with the singing sword. Too late,
too late: horse fluids  showered him. Bellows of  agony pealed in his  ears. The
horse and the hawk-mask and Tempus went down together, thrashing.

When Tempus sorted it out, he allowed that the horse had killed the hawk-mask at
the same time the hawk-mask had disembowelled the horse.

But he had to finish it. It lay there thrashing pathetically, deep groans coming
from it. He  stood over it  uncertainly, then knelt  and stroked its  muzzle. It
snapped at him, eyes rolling, demanding to die. He acceded, and the dust in  his
eyes hurt so much they watered profusely.

Its legs were still kicking weakly when he heard a movement, turned on his  good
leg, and stared.

Shadowspawn  was  methodically  stripping  the  hawk-masks  of  their  arms  and
valuables.

Hanse did  not notice  Tempus, as  he limped  away. Or  he pretended he did not.
Whichever, there was nothing left to say.


5

When he reached the  Weaponshop, his leg hardly  pained him. It was  numb; it no
longer throbbed. It would heal flawlessly,  as any wound he took always  healed.
Tempus hated it.

Up to the Weaponshop's door he strode, as the dawn spilled gore onto Sanctuary's
alleys.

He kicked it; it opened wide. How he despised supernal battle, and himself  when
his preternatural abilities came into play.

'Hear me, Vashanka! I have had enough! Get this sidewalk stand out of here!'

There was  no answer.  Within, everything  was dim  as dusk,  dim as  the pit of
unknowingness which spawned day and night and endless striving.

There were no weapons here for him to see, no counter, no proprietor, no rack of
armaments pulsing and humming expectantly. But then, he already had his. One  to
a customer was the rule: one body; one mind; one swing through life.

He trod mists tarnished like the grey horse's coat. He trod a long corridor with
light at its  ending, pink like  new beginnings, pink  like his iron  sword when
Vashanka lifted it by Tempus's hand. He shied away from his duality; a man  does
not look closely at a curse of his  own choosing. He was what he was, vessel  of
his god. But he had  his own body, and that  particular body was aching; and  he
had his own mind, and that particular  mind was dank and dark like the  dusk and
the dusty death he dealt.

'Where are You, Vashanka, 0 Slaughter Lord?'

Right here, resounded  the voice within  his head. But  Tempus was not  going to
listen to any internal voice. Tempus wanted confrontation.

'Materialize, you bastard!'

I already have; one body; one mind; one life - in every sphere.

'I am  not you!'  Tempus screamed  through clenched  teeth, willing firm footing
beneath his sinking feet.

No,  you are  not. But  I am  you, sometimes,  said the  nimbus-wreathed figure
striding towards him  over gilt-edged clouds.  Vashanka: so very  tall with hair
the colour of yarrow honey and a high brow free from lines.

'Oh, no...'

You wanted to see Me. Look upon Me, servant!

'Not so close, Pillager. Not so much resemblance. Do not torture me, My God! Let
me blame it all on You - not be You!'

So many years, and you yet seek self-delusion?

'Definitely. As do You,  if You think to  gather worshippers in this  fashion! 0
Berserker God, You cannot roast their mages before them: they are all  dependent
on  sorcery. You  cannot terrify  them thus,  and expect  them to  come to  You.
Weapons will not woo them; they are not men of the armies. They are thieves, and
pirates, and prostitutes! You have gone too far, and not far enough!'

Speaking of prostitutes, did you see your sister? Look at Me!

Tempus had to obey. He faced the manifestation of Vashanka, and recalled that he
could not take a woman in gentleness, that he could but war. He saw his battles,
ranks parading in endless eyes of storm  and blood bath. He saw the Storm  God's
consort, His own sister whom He raped eternally, moaning on Her couch in anguish
that Her blood brother would ravish Her so.

Vashanka laughed.

Tempus snarled wordlessly through frozen lips.

You should have let us have her.

'Never!' Tempus howled.  Then: '0 God,  leave off! You  are not increasing  Your
reputation among  these mortals,  nor mine!  This was  an ill-considered venture
from the  outset. Go  back to  Your heaven  and wait.  I will  build Your temple
better without Your  maniacal aid. You  have lost all  sense of proportion.  The
Sanc-tuarites will not worship one who makes of their town a battlefield!'

Tempus, do not be wroth with Me. I have My own troubles, you know. I have to get
away every now and again. And you have not been warring, whined the god, for  so
very long. I am bored and I am lonely.

'And You  have caused  the death  of my  horse!' Tempus  spat, and broke free of
Vashanka, wrenching  his mind  loose from  the mirror  mind of  his god  with an
effort of will  greater than any  he had ever  mounted before. He  turned in his
steps and began to retrace them. The god called to him over his shoulder, but he
did not look back. He put his feet in the smudges they had left in the clouds as
he had walked among them, and the farther he trudged, the more substantial those
clouds became.

He trekked  into lighter  darkness, into  a soft,  new sunrise,  into a pink and
lavender morning which  was almost Sanctuary's.  He continued to  walk until the
smell of dead fish and Downwind  pollution assailed his nostrils. He strode  on,
until a weed tripped him  and he fell to his  knees in the middle of  a damp and
vacant lot.

He heard a cruel laugh, and as he looked up he was thinking that he had not made
it back at all - that Vashanka was not through punishing him.

But to his  right was the  Vulgar Unicorn, to  his left the  palimpsest tenement
wall. And before him  stood one of the  palace eunuchs, come seeking  him with a
summons from Kittycat to discuss what might be done about the Weaponshop said to
be manifesting next to the Vulgar Unicorn.

'Tell Kadakithis,'  said Tempus,  arduously gaining  his feet,  'that I  will be
there presently.  As you  can see...'  He waved  around him,  where no structure
stood or even  could be proved  ever to have  stood '... there  is no longer any
Weaponshop. Therefore, there is no longer any problem, nor any urgency to attend
to it. There is, however, one very  irritable Hell Hound in this vacant lot  who
wants to be left alone.'

The blue-black  eunuch exposed  perfect, argent  teeth. 'Yes,  yes, master,'  he
soothed the honey-haired man. 'I can see that this is so.'

Tempus ignored the eunuch's rosy, outstretched  palm, and his sneer at the  Hell
Hound pretending to negotiate the humpy turf without pain. Accursed Wriggly!

As the  round-rumped eunuch  sauntered off,  Tempus decided  the Vulgar  Unicorn
would do as  well as any  place to sit  and sniff krrf  and wait for  his leg to
finish healing. It ought to take about an hour - unless Vashanka was more  angry
at him than he estimated, in which case it might take a couple of days.

Shying from  that dismal  prospect, he  pursued diverse  thoughts. But  he fared
little better. Where he was going to get another horse like the one he had lost,
he could not conjecture, any more than he could recall the exact moment when the
last dissolving wisps  of Vashanka's Weaponshop  blurred away into  the mists of
dawn.



SHADOW'S PAWN
By Andrew J. Offutt

She  was  more than  attractive  and she  walked  with head  high  in pride  and
awareness of her womanhood. The bracelet  on her bare arm flashed and  seemed to
glow with that  brightness the gods  reserve for polished  new gold. She  should
have  been walking  amid bright  lights illuminating  the dancing  waters of   a
fountain, turning its sparkling into a  million diamonds and, with the aid  of a
bit of refraction, colourful other gemstones as well.

There was no fountain down here by the fish market, and the few lights were  not
bright. She did not belong here.  She was stupid to be here,  walking unescorted
so late at night. She was stupid. Stupidity had its penalties; it did not pay.

Still, the watching thief  appreciated the stupidity of  others. It did pay;  it
paid him. He made his living by  it, by his own cleverness and the  stupidity of
others. He was about to go to  work. Even at the reduced price he  would receive
from a changer, that serpent-carved bracelet would feed him well. It would  keep
him, without  the necessity  of more  such hard  work as  this damnable lurking,
waiting, for - oh, probably a month.

Though she was the sort of woman men looked upon with lust, the thief would  not
have her. He  did not see  her that way.  His lust was  not carnal. The  waiting
thief was no rapist. He was a businessman. He did not even like to kill, and  he
seldom had to. She passed the doorway  in whose shadows he lurked, on the  north
side of the street.

'G'night Praxy, and thanks  again for all that  beer,' he called to  no one, and
stepped out onto the planking that bordered the street. He was ten paces  behind
the quarry.  Twelve. 'Good  thing I'm  walking -  I'm in  no condition to ride a
horse t'night!' Fourteen paces.

Laughing giddily, he followed her. The quarry.

She reached the corner of the deserted street and turned north, onto the  Street
of Odours. Walking around two sides of the Serpentine! She was stupid. The  dolt
had no business whatever with that fine bracelet. Didn't have proper respect for
it. Didn't know how to take care  of it. The moment she rounded the  corner, the
thief stepped off the boardwalk onto  the unpaved street, squatted to snatch  up
his    shoes    the   moment    he    stepped   out    of    them,   and    ran.
'

Just at the intersection he  stopped as if he had  run into a wall, and  dropped
the shoes. Stepped into them. Nodded  affably, drunkenly to the couple who  came
around off  Stink Street  - slat  and slattern  wearing three  coppers' worth of
clothing and four of 'jewellery'. He stepped onto the planking, noting that they
noted little save each other. How nice. The Street of Odours was empty as far as
he could see. Except for the quarry.

'Uhh,' he groaned as if in misery. 'Lady,' he called, not loudly. 'My lady?'  He
slurred a little, not overdoing. Five  paces ahead, she paused and looked  back.
'H-hellp,' he said, right hand clutching at his stomach.

She was too stupid to be down here  alone at this time of night, all right.  She
came back! All solicitous she was, and  his hand moved a little to the  left and
came out with a flat-bladed knife  while his left hand clamped her  right wrist,
the unbraceleted one. The point of  the knife touched the knot of  her expensive
cerulean sash.

'Do not scream. This is a throwing knife.  I throw it well, but I prefer not  to
kill. Unless  I have  to, understand.me?  All I  want is  that nice little snake
you're wearing.'

'Oh!' Her eyes  were huge and  she tucked in  her belly, away  from the point of
several inches of dull-silvery  leaf-shape he held to  her middle. 'It-it was  a
gift...'

'I will accept it as a gift. Oh you are smart, very smart not to try yelling.  I
just hate to have to stick pretty  women in the belly. It's messy, and  it could
give this end of town a bad name. I hate to throw a knife into their backs,  for
that matter. Do you believe me?'

Her voice was a squeak: 'Yes.'

'Good.' He  released her  wrist and  kept his  hand outstretched,  palm up. 'The
bracelet then. I am  not so rude as  to tear such a  pretty bauble off a  pretty
lady's pretty wrist.'

Staring at him as if entranced, she backed a pace. He flipped the knife,  caught
it by the tip. His left palm remained extended, a waiting receptacle. The  right
hefted  the  knife  in a  throwing  attitude  and she  swiftly  twisted  off the
bracelet. Better  than he  had thought,  he realized  with a  flash of greed and
gratification; the serpent's eyes appeared  to be nice topazes! All  right then,
he'd let her keep the expensive sash.

She did not drop the bracelet into his palm; she placed it there. Nice hard cold
gold, marvellously  weighty. Only  slightly warmed  from a  wrist the  colour of
burnt sienna. Nice, nice. Her eyes leaped, flickered in fear when he flipped the
knife to catch it by its leather-wrapped tang. It had no hilt, to keep that  end
light behind the weighted blade.

'You see?' he said, showing teeth. 'I have no desire for your blood,  understand
me? Only this bauble.'

The bracelet  remained cold  in his  palm and  when it  moved he jerked his hand
instinctively. Fast as  he was he  was only human,  not a striking  serpent; the
bracelet, suddenly become a living snake, drove its fangs into the meaty part of
his hand that  was the inner  part of his  thumb. It clung,  and it hurt.  Oh it
hurt.

The thief's smile vanished  with his outcry of  pain. Yet he saw  her smile, and
even as he felt the horror within  him he raised the throwing knife to  stab the
filthy bitch who had trapped him.

That is, he tried to  raise the knife, tried to  shake his bitten hand to  which
the serpent clung. He failed. Almost instantly, the bite of that unnatural snake
ossified every  bone and  bit of  cartilage in  his body  and, stiffly, Gath the
thief fell down dead.

His victim, still smiling, squatted to retrieve her property. She was  shivering
in excitement. She slipped  the cold hard bracelet  of gold onto her  wrist. Its
eyes, cold hard stones,  scintillated. And a tremor  ran all through the  woman.
Her eyes glittered and sparkled.

'Oooohh,' she murmured with a shiver, all trembly and tingly with excitement and
delight. 'It was  worth every piece  of silver I  paid, this lovely  bauble from
that lovely shop. I'm really glad it was destroyed. Those of us who bought these
weapons of the god are so unique.' She was trembling, excitement high in her and
her heart racing with the thrill  of danger faced and killing accomplished,  and
she stroked the bracelet as if it were a lover.

She went home with her head high in pride and continuing excitement, and she was
not at all happy when her husband railed at her for being so late and seized her
by the left wrist. He went all bright eyed and stiff and fell down dead. She was
not at all happy. She had intended to kill only strangers for the thrill of  it,
those who deserved it. Somewhere, surely, the god Vashanka smiled.


'The god-damned city's in a  mess and busy as a  kicked anthill and I think  you
had more  than a  whit to  do with  it,' the  dark young  man said. (Or was he a
youth?  Street-wise  and  tough and  hooded  of  eyes and  wearing  knives  as a
courtesan wore gems.  Hair blacker than  black and eyes  nearly so above  a nose
almost meant for a bird of prey.)

' "God-damned" city, indeed,' said  the paler, discomfitingly tall man,  who was
older but not old, and  he came close to smiling.  'You don't know how near  you
are to truth, Shadowspawn.'

Around them in the charcoal dimness others neither heard nor were overheard.  In
this place,  the trick  was not  to be  overheard. The  trick was  to talk under
everyone else. A  bad tavern with  a bad reputation  in a bad  area of a nothing
town, the tavern called the Vulgar Unicorn was an astonishingly quiet place.

'Just call me Hanse and stop being all cryptic and fatherly,' the dark young man
said. 'I'm not looking  for a father. I  had one - I'm  told. Then I had  Cudget
Swearoath. Cudget told me all I -all he knew.'

The other man heard; 'fatherly' used to mean 'patronizing', and the flash of ego
in the tough called Shadowspawn. Chips  on his shoulders out to here.  The other
man did not smile. How to tell Hanse how many Hanses he had known, over so  many
years?

'Listen. One night a while ago I killed. Two men.' Hanse did not lower his voice
for that statement-not-admission; he kept it low. The shadow of a voice.

'Not  men, Hanse.  Hawk-masks. Jubal's  bravoes. Hardly  men.'

'They  were men, Tempus. They  were all men. So is  Hanse and even Kadaki -  the
prince-governor.'

'Kitty-Cat.'

'I do not call  him that,' Hanse said,  with austerity. Then he  said, 'It's you
I'm not sure of, Tempus. Are you a man?'

'I'm a man,'  Tempus said, with  a sigh that  seemed to come  from the weight of
decades and decades. 'Tonight  I asked you to  call me Thales. Go  ahead, Hanse.
You killed two men, while helping me. Were you, by the way? Or were you  lurking
around my horse that night thinking of laying hands on some krrf?'

'I use no drugs and little alcohol.'

'That isn't what I asked,' Tempus said, not bothering to refute.

Dark eyes met Tempus's, which impressed him. 'Yes.  That is why I was there, T  
Thales. Why "Thay-lees"?'

'Since all  things are  presently full  of gods,  why not  "Thales"? Thank  you,
Hanse. I appreciate your honesty. We can -'

'Honesty?' A man, once well built and  now wearing his chest all over his  broad
belt and bulging  under it as  well, had been  passing their small  round table.
'Did  I  hear  something  about  Hanse's  honesty?  Hanse?'  His  laugh  was   a
combination: pushed and genuine.

The lean youth called Shadowspawn moved nothing but his head. 'How'd you like  a
hole in your middle to let out all that hot air, Abohorr?'

'How'd you like a third eye, Abohorr?' Hanse's tablemate said.

Abohorr betook himself  elsewhere, muttering -  and hurrying. Both  Hanse's lean
swift hands remained on the tabletop. 'You know him, Thales?'

'No.'

'You heard me say his name and so you said it right after me.'

'Yes.'

'You're sharp, Thales. Too ... smart.' Hanse slapped the table's surface.  'I've
been meeting too many sharp people lately. Sharp as...' .

'Knives,' Tempus said, finishing the complaint  of a very very sharp young  man.
'You were mentioning that you were waiting for me to come out of that house-not
home, Hanse, because you knew I was carrying. And then Jubal's bravoes  attacked
- me -and you took down two.'

'I was mentioning  that, yes.' Hanse  developed a seemingly  genuine interest in
his brown-and-orange Saraprins mug. 'How many men have you killed, Thales?'

'Oh gods. Do not ask.'

'Many.'

'Many, yes.'

'And no scars on you.'

Tempus looked pained.  'No scars on  me,' he said,  to his own  big hands on the
table.  Bronzed, they  were still  more fair  than Shadowspawn's.  On a  sudden
thought,  he  looked  up  and  his  expression  was  of  dawning  revelation and
disbelief. 'Hanse? You saved my life that  night. I saved yours - but they  were
after me to begin with. Hanse? How many men have you killed?'

Hanse looked away. Hair like a raven, nose of a young falcon. Profile carved out
by a hand-axe sharper  than a barber's razor,  all planes and angles.  A pair of
onyxes for  eyes, and  just that  hard. His  look away  was uncharacteristic and
Tempus knew it. Tempus worked out  of the palace and had access  to confidential
reports,  one of  which not  even the  prince-governor had  seen. He  wouldn't,
either, because it no longer existed.  Too, Tempus had dealt with this  spawn of
Downwind and the shadows. He was  here in this murkily-lit tavern of  humanity's
dregs to deal with him again.

Hanse, looking away, said, 'You are not to tell anyone.'

Tempus knew just what to say. 'Do not insult me again.'

Hanse's nod was not as long as  the thickness of one of his knives.  (Were there
five, or did he really wear a  sixth on one of his thighs? Tempus  doubted that;
the strap wouldn't stay up.)

At last Hanse answered the question. 'Two.'

Two men. Tempus nodded,  sighing, pushing back to  come as close to  slumping on
his bench as  his kind of  soldier could. Damp.  Who would have  thought it? The
reputation he  had, this  dark surly  scary (to  others, not  the man  currently
calling himself Tempus) youth from the gutters he doubtless thought he had risen
so far above. Tempus knew he had wounded  a man or two, and he had assumed.  Now
Shadowspawn said he had  never slain! That, from  such a one, was  an admission.
Because of me he has been blooded, Tempus mused, and the weary thought followed:
Well, he's not the first. I had my first two, once. I wonder who they were,  and
where? (But he knew, he knew. A man did not forget such.

Tempus  was older  than anyone  thought; he  was not  as world-weary  old as  he
thought, or  thought he  thought.) Just  now he  wanted to  put forth a hand and
touch the much younger man. He certainly did not.

He said, 'How do you feel about it?'

Hanse continued to gaze assiduously at something else. How could a child of  the
desert with such long long lashes and that sensuous, almost pretty mouth look so
grim and thin-lipped? 'I threw up.'

'That proves you are human and is what you did. How do you feel about it?'

Hanse looked at him directly. After a time, he shrugged.

'Yes,' Tempus sighed, nodding.  He drained his cup.  Raised a right arm  on high
and glanced in the general direction of the tap. The new nightman nodded. Though
he had not looked at the fellow, Tempus lowered his arm and looked at Hanse.  'I
understand,' he said.

'Do you. A while ago I told the  prince that it is a prince's business to  kill,
not a thief's. Now I have killed.'

'What a  wonderful thing  to say  to a  bit of  royalty! I  wish you  weren't so
serious right now, so I could laugh  aloud. Do not expect any gentle words  from
me about the kills, my friend. It happens.  I didn't ask for your help - or  for
you to be waiting for me. You won't do that again.'

'Not that way, no.' Hanse  leaned back while whatever-his-name-was (they  called
him 'Two-Thumb') set  two newly-filled mugs  between them. He  did not take  the
other two, or wait  for payment. 'I think  things started when Bourne  ... died,
and you came to Thieves' World.'

'Thieves' World?'

Again that almost-embarrassed shrug. 'It's  what we call Sanctuary. Some  of us.
Now the whole city's  in a mess and  a turmoil and I  think you have to  do with
that.'

'I believe you said that.'

'You led me astray,  "Thales". That temple or  store or whatever it  was. It ...
collapsed? - erupted, like a volcano? Something. Next the prince-'

'You really do respect him, don't you?'

'I don't work for him though,' Hanse pointed out; Tempus did. 'He impounded  the
... the god-weapons? - that place sold, or _ tried to. Hell Hounds paying people
for things they bought - or else!  Things! New wealth in the city, because  some
of them had been stolen and now are bought from thieves. People are laughing  at
dealing with the new changer: the palace!'

Changer, Tempus knew, meant fence  in this - city? 0  my God Vashanka - this?  A
city?!

'Two ships  sitting out  there in  the harbour,'  Hanse went  on, 'guarded up to
here. I  know those  Things, those  dark weapons  of sorcery,  are being  loaded
aboard. Then what? Out to sea and straight to the bottom?'

'The very  best place  for them,'  Tempus said,  turning and  slowly turning his
glazed earthenware mug. This one was striped garishly in yellow waves.'  Believe
it. There is too much power in those devices.'

'Meanwhile some "enforcers" from the mageguild have been trying to get hands  on
them first.'

That Tempus  also knew.  Three of  the toughs  had been  eliminated in  the past
twenty hours, unless another or two had been slain tonight, by local Watchmen or
those special guardsmen  called Hell Hounds.  'Unions will try  to protect their
members, yes. No matter what. A union is a mindless animal.'

'You paid me well -fair, to  fetch you the diamond wand-things that  woman wears
in her hair. I did, and she has them back. You gave them back.'

Cime. Cime's diamond-rods in her fine fine wealth of hair. 'Yes. Did I?'

'You did. And strange things are happening in Sanctuary. Those . were  soreerous
weapons those hawk-masks used against you and me. A poor thief tried to snatch a
woman's bracelet the other night, down in - never mind the street. She shouldn't
have been there. The bracelet turned into  a snake and killed him. I don't  know
what it did to him. He's dead and  they say he weighs about twice as much  as he
did alive.'

'It solidified his bones. It was obtained this morning. And when didn't  strange
things happen in Sanctuary, my friend?'

'That  is  twice you  have  called me  that.'  Hanse's words  had  the sound  of
accusation about them.

'So I have. I must mean it, then.'

Hanse became visibly uncomfortable: 'I am Hanse. I was ... apprentice to  Cudget
Swearoath. Prince Kitty-Cat  had him hanged.  I am Shadowspawn.  I have breached
the palace and because of me a Hell Hound is dead. I have no friends.'

And you slip and call him 'Kitty-Cat' when you think of your executed mentor, do
you? Not seeking  a father, eh?  Do you know  that all men  do, and that  I have
mine, in Vashanka? Ah Hanse how you seek  to be enigmatic and so cool - and  are
about as transparent as a pan of water caught from the sky!

Tempus waved a hand. 'Save all that. Just tell me not to be your friend. Not  to
call you friend.'

A silence fell over them like a struck banner and something naked stared out  of
Hanse's eyes. By  the time he  knew he must  speak into the  silence, it was too
late. That same silence was Tempus's answer.

'Yes,'  Tempus  said,  considerately-cleverly changing  the  subject.  'What old
whatsisname Torchholder  yammers about  is true.  Vashanka came,  and He claimed
Sanctuary. His name is branded into the  place, now. The very temple of Ils lies
in rubble. Vashanka created the Weaponshop, from nothing, and-'

'A pedlar-god?'

'I didn't think much of the  lactic myself,' Tempus said, hoping Vashanka  heard
him  while  noting how  good  the youth  was  at sneering.  'And  the Weaponshop
destroyed the mage the  governor imported to combat  him. Vashanka is not  to be
combated.'

Hanse snapped glances this way and that. 'Say such things a time or two more  in
Sanctuary, my friend, and your body will be mourning the loss of its head.'

The blond man stared at him. 'Do you believe that?'

Hanse let that pass, while he  rowed into the current of other  conversations in
the tavern. A  current restless as  a thief on  a landing outside  a window, and
conversations just as stealthy and dark. He tuned it out again, stepping out  of
the flow yet flowing with it. Quietly.

'And how many of those fell Things do you think are still loose?'

'Too many. Two or four? You know our job is to collect them.'

'Our?'

'The Hell Hounds.'

'Who's your bearded friend, Hanse?'

The speaker  stood beside  the table,  only a  bit older  than Hanse and just as
cocky. Older  in years  only; he  had not  benefited from  those years and would
never  be so  much as  Hanse. Self-consciously  he wore  self-consciously tight
black. Oh, a brilliant thief! About as unobtrusive as hives.

Hanse was staring at Tempus, who was pink and bronze of skin, gold and honey  of
hair,  lengthy  and lengthy  of  legs, and  smoothshaven  as a  pair  of doeskin
leggings. Hanse did not  take his dark-eyed gaze  off the Hell Hound,  while his
dark hand moved out  to close on the  (black-bracered) wrist of the  other young
man.

'What colour would you say his beard is, Athavul?'

Athavul  moved his  arm and  proved that  his wrist  would not  come loose.  His
arrogance and mask of cocky confidence fled him faster than a street girl fled a
man revealed poor.  Tempus recognized Athavul's  chuckle; nervousness and  sham.
Tempus had heard it a thousand or  a million times. What was the difference?  He
reflected on temporality, even while this boy Athavul temporized.

'You going blind, Shadowspawn? You think myself is, and testing he and I?'  With
a harsh short  laugh and a  slap with his  other hand on  his own chest, Athavul
said, 'Black as this. Black as this!' He slapped his black leather pants - self
consciously.

Tempus, leaning  a bit  forwards, elbows  on the  little table,  big swordsman's
shoulders hunched, continued, to gaze directly at Hanse. Into Hanse's eyes.  His
face    looked    open   because    he    made   it    that    way.   Beardless.
-

'Same's  his  hair?' Hanse  said,  and his  voice  sounded brittle  as  very old
harness-leather. His eyes glittered.

Athavul swallowed. 'Hair...' He swallowed again, looking from Hanse to Tempus to
Hanse. 'Ah  ... he's  your, ah,  friend, Hanse.  Let go,  will you? You twit him
about his ... head if you want to, but I won't. Sorry I stopped and tried to  be
civil.'

Without looking away from Hanse, Tempus said, 'It's all right, Athavul. My  name
is Thales and I am not sensitive. I've been this bald for years.'

Hanse was staring at Tempus, blond  Tempus. His hand opened. Athavul yanked  his
arm back so fast he hit himself  in his (nearly inexistent) stomach. He made  no
pretence of grace;  with a dark  glance at Hanse,  he betook himself  elsewhere,
sullenly silent.

'Nicely done,' Tempus said, showing his teeth.

'Don't smile at me, stranger. What do you look like?'

'Exactly what you see, Hanse. Exactly.'

'And ... what did he see?' Hanse's wave of his arm was as tight as he had become
inside. 'What do they see here, talking with Hanse?'

'He told you.'

'Black beard, no hair.'

Blond, beardless Tempus nodded.

Neither had taken his gaze off the other's eyes. 'What else?'

'Does it matter? I am in the employ of that person we both know. What you people
call a Hell Hound. I would not come here in that appearance! I doubt anyone else
would be in this room,  if they saw me. I  was here when you came  in, remember?
Waiting for you. You were too cool to ask the obvious.'

'They call me spawn of the shadows,' Hanse said quietly, slowly, in a low  tone.
He was leaning back as if to get a few more centimetres between him and the tall
man. 'You're just a damned shadow!'

'It's fitting. I need your help, Shadowspawn.'

Hanse said, enunciating distinctly, 'Shit.'  And rising he added, 'Sing  for it.
Dance in  the streets  for it.'  And he  turned away,  then back to add, 'You're
paying of course, Baldy,' and then he betook himself elsewhere.

Outside, he glanced up and down the vermiform 'street' called Serpentine, turned
right to walk a few paces north. Automatically, he stepped over the broken plank
in the boardwalk. He glanced into the tucked-in courtyard that was too broad and
shallow to be dangerous  for several hours yet.  Denizens of the Maze  called it
variously the Outhouse, Tick's  Vomitory., or, less seriously.  Safe-haven. From
the pointed tail of the shortcloak on the man back within that three-sided  box,
Hanse recognized Poker the Cadite. From the wet sounds, he made an assumption as
to Poker's activity. The man with the piebald beard glanced around.

'Come on in, Shadowspawn. Not much room left.'

'Looking for Athavul. Said he was carrying and said I could join him.' Lying was
more than easy to Shadowspawn; it was almost instinctive.

'You're not  mad at  him?' Poker  dropped his  tunic's hem  and turned  from the
stained rearmost wall.

'No no, nothing like that.'

'He went south. Turned into Slick Walk.'

'Thanks, Poker. There's a  big-bearded man in the  Unicorn with no hair  on top.
Get him to buy you a cup. Tell him I said.'

'Ah. Enemy of yours, Hansey?'

'Right.'

Hanse turned and walked  a few paces north  towards Straight, his back  to Slick
Walk (which led into the two-block L  whose real name no one remembered. Nary  a
door  opened onto  it and  it stayed  dark as  a sorcerer's  heart. It  smelled
perpetually sour and was  referred to as Vomit  Boulevard). When Poker said  the
weather was  sunny, turn  up your  cloak's hood  against rain.  When Poker  said
right, head left.

Hanse  cut left  through Odd  Birt's Dodge,  angling around  the corner  of the
tenement owned by Furtwan the dealer in  snails for dye - who lived way  over on
the east side, hardly in tenement conditions. Instantly Hanse vanished into  the
embrace of his true friend and home. The shadows.

Because he had kept  his eyes slitted while  he was in the  light filtering down
from Straight Street, he was able to see. The darkness deepened with each of his
gliding westward steps.

He heard the odd tapping sound as he passed Wrong Way Park. What in all the -  a
blind man? Hanse smiled - keeping his mouth closed against the possible flash of
teeth. This was a wonderful place for the blind! They could 'see' more in three
quarters of the Maze than anyone  with working eyes. He eased along  towards the
short streetlet  called Tanner,  hearing the  noises from  Sly's Place.  Then he
heard Athavul's voice, out in the open.

'Your pardon, dear  lady, but if  you don't hand  myself your necklace  and your
wallet I'll put this crossbow bolt through your left gourd.'

Hanse eased closer, getting himself nearer the triple 'corner' where Tanner sort
of intersected with Odd Birt's Dodge and touched the north-south wriggle of  the
Serpentine as well. Streets ; in the  Maze, it has been said, had been  laid out
by two love-struck snakes, both soaring on krrf. Hanse heard the reply of  Ath's
intended prey: 'You don't  have a crossbow, slime  lizard, but see what I have!'
The scream, in  a  voice barely recognizable as  Athavul's, raised the hairs  on
the back of   Hanse's neck  and  sent  a chill   running all  the  way  down his
coccyx. He  considered freezing in  place. He I considered  the  sensible course
of turning and  running. Curiosity urged him to edge two steps farther  and peek
around the building housing Sly's. Curiosity won.

By the time he looked, Athavul  was whimpering and gibbering. Someone in  a long
cloak the colour of red clay, hood  up, stepped around him and Hanse thought  he
heard a  giggle. Cowering,  pleading, gibbering  in horribly  obvious fear  - of
what? - Athavul ^ fell to his knees. The cloak swept on along Tanner towards the
i Street of Odours,  and Hanse swallowed with  a little effort. A  knife had got
itself into his hand; he didn't throw if. He edged down a few more steps to  see
which way the cloak turned. Right. Hanse caught a glimpse of the walking  stick.
It was white. The way the person  in that cloak was moving, though, she  was not
blind. Nor was she any big woman.

Hanse put up his knife  and started towards Athavul. 'No!  Please plehehehease!'
On his knees, Ath clasped his hands ; and pleaded. His eyes were wide and glassy
with fear. Sweat and [  tears ran down his face  in such profusion that he  must
soon have i salt spots on his  black jerkin. His shaking was wind-blown wash  on
the line and his face was the colour of a priming coat of whitewash.

Hanse stood still. He stared. 'What's the matter with you, Ath? I'm not menacing
you, you fugitive from a dung-fuelled stove! Athavul! What's the matter'th you?'
'Oh please pleoaplease no no oh ohh ohohohono-o-o...' Athavul fell on his  knees
and his still-clasped hands, bony rump in the air. His shaking  had increased to
that of a whipped, starved dog.

Such an  animal would  have moved  Hanse to  pity. Athavul  was just ridiculous.
Hanse wanted  to kick  him. He  was also  aware that  two or  three people  were
peering out of the dump still called Sly's Place though Sly had taken dropsy and
died two years back.

'Ath? Did she hurt you? Hey! You  little piece of camel dropping - what  did she
do to you?'

At  the  angry, demanding  sound  of Hanse's  voice,  Athavul clutched  himself.
Weeping loudly, he rolled over against  the wall. He left little spots  of tears
and  slobber and  a puddle  from a  spasming sphincter.  Hanse swallowed  hard.
Sorcery. That damned Enos  Y - no, he  didn't work this way.  Ath was absolutely
terrified. Hanse had always thought  him the consistency of sparrow's  liver and
chicken  soup, with  bird's eggs  between his  legs. But  this -  not even  this
strutting ass could  be this hideously  possessed by fear  without preternatural
aid. Just the sight of  it was scary. Hanse felt  an urge to stomp or  stick Ath
just to shut him up, and that was awful.

He  glanced at  the thirty-one  strands of  dangling Syrese  rope (each  knotted
thirty-one  times) that  hung in  the doorway  of Sly's.  He saw  seven staring
eyeballs, six  fingers, and  several mismatched  feet. Even  in the  Maze, noise
attracted attention ... but people had sense enough not to go running out to see
what was amiss.

'BLAAAH!' Hanse shouted, making a horrid face and pouncing at the doorway.  Then
he rushed  past the  grovelling, weeping  Athavul. At  the corner  he looked  up
Odours towards Straight, and he was sure he saw the vermilion cloak. Maroon now,
in the distance. Yes. Across Straight, heading north now past the tanners' broad
open-front sheds, almost to the intersection with the Street called Slippery.

Several people were walking along Odours, just walking, heading south in Hanse's
direction. The lone one carried a lanthorn.

All  six walkers  - three,  one, and  two -  passed him  going in  the opposite
direction. None saw him, though Hanse was hurrying. He heard the couple  talking
about  the hooded  blind woman  with the  white staff.  He crossed  well-lighted
Straight Street when the red clay cloak was at the place called Harlot's  Cross.
There  Tanner's  Row angled  in  to join  the  Street of  Odours  at its  mutual
intersection with the broad Governor's Walk. He passed the tiny 'temple' ofTheba
and several shops to stop outside the entrance of the diminutive Temple of  Eshi
Virginal - few believed in that  -and watched the cloak turn left.  Northwest. A
woman, all right. Heading past the long sprawl of the farmers' market? Or one of
the little dwellings that faced it?

Heading for Red  Lantern Road? A  woman who pretends  to be blind  and who put a
spell of terror on Athavul like nothing I ever saw.

He had to follow her. He was incapable of not following her.

He was not driven only by curiosity.  He wanted to know the identity of  a woman
with such  a device,  yes. There  was also  the possibility  of obtaining such a
useful  wand. White,  it resembled  the walk-tap  stick of  a sightless  woman.
Painted though, it could be the swagger stick of ... Shadowspawn. Or of  someone
with  a swollen  purse who  could put  it to  good use  against Hanse's  fellow
thieves.

He looked out for himself; let them.

Hanse did not follow.  He moved to intersect,  and could anyone have  done it as
swiftly and surefootedly, it must have been a child who lived hereabouts and had
no supervision.

He ran past Slippery - fading into  a fig-pedlar's doorway while a pair of  City
Watchmen passed - then ran through two  vacant lots, a common back yard full  of
dog droppings and the  white patches of older  ones, over an outhouse,  around a
fat tree and then two meathouses and through two hedges - one spiny, which  took
no note of being cursed by a shadow on silent feet - across a porch and around a
rain barrel, over the top of a sleeping black cat that objected with more  noise
than the two dogs he had aroused - one was still importantly barking, puffed  up
and hating to leave off- across another porch ('Is that you, Dadisha? Where have
you been?'), through someone's scraps and  - long jump! - over a  mulchpile, and
around two  lovers ('What  was that,  Wrenny?'), an  overturned outhouse, a rain
barrel, a cow tethered to a wagon  he went under without even slowing down,  and
three more buildings.

One of  the lovers  and one  of the  dogs actually  caught sight  of the  swift
fleeting shadow. No one else. The cow might have wondered.

On one knee beside a fat beanberry bush at the far end of Market Run, he  looked
out upon the long straight stretch of well-kept street that ran past the  market
on the other side. He was not winded.

The hooded cloak- with the walking stick was just reaching this end of the long,
long farmers' market. Hanse crimped his cheeks  in a little smile. Oh he was  so
clever, so speedy! He was just in time to-

- to see  the two cloakless  but hooded footpads  materialize from the  deep jet
shadows at the building's  corner. They pounced. One  ran angling, to grasp  her
from behind, while his fellow came at her face-on with no weapons visible. Ready
to snatch what  she had, and  run. She behaved  surprisingly; she lunged  to one
side and prodded  the attacker in  front. Prodded, that  Hanse saw; she  did not
strike or stab with the white staff.

Instantly the  man went  to his  knees. He  was gibbering,  pleading, quaking. A
butterfly clinging to a twig in a windstorm. Or ... Athavul.

Swiftly - not professionally  fast, but swiftly for  her, a civilian, Hanse  saw
(he was moving) - she turned to  the one coming up behind her. He  also adjusted
rapidly. He went low. The staff whirred over his head while his partner  babbled
and  pleaded  in the  most  abject fear.  The  footpad had  not  stopped moving.
(Neither had Hanse.) Up came the hooded  man from his crouch and his right  hand
snapped out  edge-on to  strike her  wrist while  his other  fist leaped  to her
stomach. That  fist glittered  in the  moonlight, or  something glittered in it.
That silvery something  went into her  - and she  made a puking  gagging throaty
noise and  while she  fell the  white stick  slid from  her reflexively  opening
fingers. He grabbed it.

That was surely ill-advised,  but his hand closed  on the staffs handle  without
apparent effect on him.  He kicked her viciously,  angrily - maybe she  felt it,
gutted, and maybe she did not - and he railed at his comrade. The latter, on his
knees, behaved as Athavul had when Hanse shouted at him. He fell over and rolled
away, assuming the foetal posture while he wept and pled.

The killer  spat several  expletives and  whirled back  to his  victim. She  was
twitching, dying. Yanking open the vermilion cloak, he jerked off her  necklace,
ripped a twisted silver loop out of each ear, and yanked at the scantling  purse
on her  girdle. It  refused to  come free.  He sliced  it with  the swift single
movement of a  practised expert. Straightening,  he glanced in  every direction,
said something to his partner - who rolled foetally, sobbing.

'Theba take you, then,' the thief said, and ran.

Back into the shadows of the market  building's west corner he fled, and one  of
the shadows tripped him. As he fell, an elbow thumped the back of his neck.

'I want what you've  got, you murdering bastard,'  a shadow-voice said from  the
shadows, while the footpad twisted to roll over. 'Your kind gives thieves a  bad
name.'

'Take it then!' The fallen man rammed the white staff into the shadow's thigh as
it started to bend over him.

Instantly  fear  seized  Hanse.  Viced  him;  encompassed  him;  possessed  him.
Sickening,  stomach-fluttering  fear.  His  armpits  flooded  and  his sphincter
fluttered.

Unlike  the  stick's  victims he  had  seen,  he was  in  darkness,  and he  was
Shadowspawn. He did not fall to his knees.

He  fled, desperately  afraid, snivelling,  clutching his  gut, babbling.  Tears
flowed  to  blind him,  but  he was  in  darkness anyhow.  Staggering,  weeping,
horribly and obscenely afraid and even more horribly knowing all the while  that
he had no reason to be afraid,  that this was sorcery; the most demeaning  spell
that could be laid on a man. He  heard the killer laugh, and Hanse tried to  run
faster. Hoping the man  did not pursue to  confront him. Accost him,  Snarl mean
things at him. He could not stand that.

It did not happen  that way. The thief  who had slain without  intending to kill
laughed, but he too was scared, and disconcerted. He fled, slinking, in  another
direction. Hanse stumbled-staggered-snivelled on, on. Instinct was not gone  but
was heightened; he clung to the shadows as a frightened child to its mother. But
he made noise, noise.

Attracted  at  the  same  time  as she  was  repulsed  by  that  whining fearful
gibbering, Mignureal came upon him. 'What - it's Han -what are you doing?'

He was seriously considering ending the terror by ending himself with the  knife
in his fist. Anything to stop  this enveloping, consuming agony of fear.  At her
voice he dropped the knife and fell weeping to his knees.

'Hanse ~ stop that!'

He did not. He could not.  He could assume the foetal. He  did. Uncomprehending,
the garishly-dressed girl acted instinctively to save him. Her mother liked  him
and to Mignureal he  was attractive, a figure  of romance. In his  state, saving
him was easy, even for a thirteen-year-old. Though his hysterical sobbing  pleas
brought tears to her  eyes, for him, Mignureal  tied his wrists behind  him. The
while, she breathed prayers known only to the S'danzo.

'You come along now,'  she said firmly, leaking  tears and gulping. 'Come  along
with me!'

Hanse obeyed.

She went  straight along  the well-lit  Governor's Walk  and turned  down Shadow
Lane, conducting  her bound,  snivelling captive.  At the  corner of  Shadow and
Slippery, a couple of uniformed men accosted her.

'Why it's Moonflower's darter. Whafve you got there, Mineral?'

'Mignureal,'  she  corrected.  'Someone  put  a  spell  on  him  -  over  on the
Processional,' she said, choosing an area far from where she had found him.  'My
mother can help. Go with Eshi.'

'Hmm. A spell of fear, huh? That damned Anus Yorl, I'll wager a cup! Who is  it,
snivelling under your shawl that way?'

Mignureal considered  swiftly. What  had happened  to Hanse  was awful.  To have
these City Watchmen  know, and spread  it about -  that would be  insupportable.
Again Mignureal lied. It was her brother Antelope, she told them, and they  made
sympathetic noises and let  her be on her  way, while they. muttered  about dam'
sorcerers and  the nutty  names S'danzo  gave their  get. Both  men agreed; they
would make a routine check of Awful Alley and stop in at the Alekeep, just  down
the street.

Mignureal led  Hanse a  half-block more  and went  into her  parents' shop-and
living-quarters. They were asleep. The tautly overweight Moonflower did not heed
summonses  and  did  not  make  house  calls.  Furthermore  her  husband  was an
irrepressibly randy man  who bedded early  and insisted on  her company. At  her
daughter's sobbing and shaking her, the seer awoke. That gently-named collection
of  talent  and  adipose  tissue and  mammalia  sufficient  to  nurse octuplets,
simultaneously, sat erect. She reached  comfortingly for her daughter. Soon  she
had listened, was  out of bed,  and beside Hanse.  Mignureal had ordered  him to
remain on the divan in the shop.

'That just isn't Hanse, Mother!'

'Of course it isn't. Look on sorcery, and hate it.'

'Name ofTiana Saviour-it's awful, seeing him, hearing him this way...'

'Fetch my shawl,'  Moonflower said, one  by one relieving  Hanse of his  knives,
'and do make some tea, sweetheart.'

Moonflower held  the quaking  young man  and crooned.  She pillowed his tear-wet
face in the vastness of her bosom. She loosed his wrists, drew his hands  round,
and held  their wiry  darkness in  her large  paler dimple-backed  ones. And she
crooned, and talked low, on and on.  Her daughter draped her with the shawl  and
went to make tea.

The ray of  moonlight that fell  into the room  moved the length  of a big man's
foot while the seer sat there with him, and more, and Hanse went to sleep, still
shivering.  She  held  his hands  until  he  was still  but  for  his breathing.
Mignureal hovered close, all bright of eye, and knew the instant her mother went
off. Sagging. Glassy-eyed.  She began murmuring,  a woman small  inside and huge
without; a gross kitten at her divining.

'A yellow-furred hunting dog? Tall  as a tree, old as  a tree ... he hovers  and
with him is  a god not  of Ilsig. A  god of Ranke  - oh, it  is a Hell Hound. Oh
Hanse it is  not wizard-sorcery but  god-sorcery! And who  is thi -  oh. Another
god. But why is Theba involved, who has so few adherents here? Oh!'

She shuddered and her daughter started to touch her; desisted.

'I see Ils Himself hiding His face...  a shadow tall as a tree and another,  not
nearly so big. A shadow  and its  pawn? Why  it has no head,  this  smaller shad
oh. It is afraid, that's it; it has no face left. It is Ha - I will not say even
though he sleeps. Oh Mignue, there is a corpse on the street up in front of  the
farmers' market and - ahhh.' Her relief was apparent in that great sigh.  'Hanse
did not kill her. Another  did, and Theba hovers over  her. Hmm. I see -  I s- I
will not say what I s ... it fades, goes.'

Again she sighed and sat still,  sweating, overflowing her chair on both  sides.
Gazing at the sleeping Shadowspawn. 'He has spoken with the governor who is  the
emperor's kinsman, Mignureal my dear, did you know that? He will again. They are
not enemies, our governor and Shadowspawn.'

'Oh.' And Mignureal looked upon him, head to one side. Moonflower saw the look.

'You will go to bed and tomorrow you will tell me what you were doing abroad  so
late, Mignue. You will not come near Hanse again, do you understand?'

'Oh,  mother.'  Mignureal met  the  level gaze  only  briefly. 'Yes,  mother.  I
understand.' And she went to bed.

Moonflower did not; she stayed beside Hanse. In the morning he was all right and
she totd him what she had Seen. He  would never be the same again, she knew,  he
who had met quintessential fear. Lord  Terror himself, face to face. But  he was
Hanse again, and not afraid, and Moonflower was sure that within a few hours  he
would have  his gliding  swagger back.  She did  note that  he was  grim-facedly
determined.


The message left at  the little Watchpost at  the corner of Shadow  and Lizard's
Way suggested that  the 'tall as  a tree Hell-hound  take a walk  between stinky
market  and the  cat storage'  at the  time of  the fifth  nightwatch 'when  the
shadows are spawning fear in all  hearts'. The message was delivered to  Tempus,
who ordered the sub-prefect to forget it, and looked fierce. The wriggly  agreed
and got thence.

In private,  his mind  aided by  a pinch  of his  powdered friend, Tempus worked
backwards at the cipher.  The. last line had  to be the signature:  Shadowspawn.
Hanse wanted to  meet him very  privately, an hour  past midnight. Good.  So ...
where? 'Stinky market' could mean  lots of places. 'Cat storage'  meant nothing.
Cat storage; cat - the granaries? - where cats not only were kept but  migrated,
drawn by the mice drawn by the grain?  No; there was no way to walk between  any
of the  granaries and  anything deserving  to be  characterized as stinky market
beyond any other stenchy place. What stinks most? Easy, he answered himself. The
tanners - no! Don't  be stupid, second thought  told him. Fish stink  worse than
anything. Hmm. The fish  market then, down on  Red Clay Street -  which might as
well be called Warehouse Street. So all the natives called it. The stinking fish
market, then, and ... cat storage? He stared at the map.

Oh. Simple. The governor  was called Kitty-Cat and  a warehouse was a  place for
storage. The Governor's Warehouse then, down beside the fish market. Not a block
from the Watchpost at Shadow and Lizard, the rascal! Tempus shook his head,  and
hours and hours  later he was  there. He made  sure no one  tried to 'help' him;
twice he played thief,  to watch his own  trail. He was not  followed. Wrinkling
his nose at the stench and slipping on a discarded fish-head, he resolved to get
a clean-up detail down here, and recommend a light as well.

'I am glad you look like you,' the shadows said, from behind and above him.

'A god has marked me, Hanse,'  Tempus explained, without turning or looking  up.
'He  helped  me,  in  the  Vulgar Unicorn.  I  didn't  care  to  be seen  there,
compromising you. Did you leave the message because you have changed your mind?'

'There will be a bargain.'

'  I can  appreciate that.  Word is  that you  have bargained  before, with  my
employer.'

'That is as obviously impossible as breaking into the palace.'

'Obviously. I am empowered to bargain, Hanse.' I      'A woman was found dead on
Farmer's Run just at the west end of the market,' the shadows said quietly. 'She
wore a cloak the colour of red clay.' I      'Yes.'      '   •

'She had a  walking stick. It  has a ...  horrible effect on  a man. Her  killer
stole it, after she used it on his partner. He abandoned him.'

'No thief's corpse was found.'

'It  does not  kill. Its  effect is  ... obscene.'  A pause;  while the  shadow
shuddered? 'I saw it happen. They were hooded.'

'Do you know who they are?'

'Not now. I canUnd out-easily. Want the stick?'

'Yes.'

'How many of those foul things remain in ... circulation?'

'We think two. A clever fellow has done well for himself by counting the  people
who came out of the  shop with a purchase, and  recording the names of those  he
knew. What is the bargain, Hanse?'

'I had rather deal with him.'

'I wish you would trust me. Setting up interviews with him takes time.'

'I trust you,  Tempus, just as  you trust me.  Get me something  in writing from
him, then. Signed.  Give it to  the seer, Moonflower.  This is costing  me time,
pulling me away from my work-'

'Work?'

' - and I shall have to have compensation. Now.'

0 you  damned arrogant  boy, Tempus  thought, and  without a  word he made three
coins clink as he dropped them. He was sure Hanse's ears could distinguish  gold
from copper or silver by the sound of the clink. He also dropped a short section
of pig's  intestine, stitched  at one  end and  tied off  at the other. He said,
'Oops.'

'I want assistance in recovering something of mine, Tempus. Just labour,  that's
all. What's to be recovered is mine, I guarantee it.'

'I'll help you myself.'

'We'll need tools, a horse, rope, strength...'

'Done. I will get it in writing, but it is done. Deliver and I deliver. We  have
a bond between us.'

'So have he and I. I do want that paper signed and slipped to the S'danzo  seer.
Very well then, Tempus. We have bargained.'

'By mid-afternoon. Good night, spawn of shadows.'

'Good night, shadow-man. You didn't say "pawn", did you?'

'No.' And Tempus turned and walked ba.ck up between the buildings to light,  and
less stenchy air. Behind him, soundlessly,  the three gold coins and little  bag
ofkrrfhe had dropped vanished, into the shadows.


Next day not long after dawn Hanse gave Moonflower a great hug and pretended  to
find a gold piece in her ear.

'I Saw for you, not for coin,' she told him.

'I  understand.  I  know.  Why  look, here's  another  in  your  other  ear, for
Mignureal. I give you  the gold because I  found it, not because  you helped me.
And a message will be given you today, for me.'

Moonflower made both coins disappear beneath her shawl into what she called  her
treasure chest. 'Don't frown;  Mignue shall have the  one as her very  own. Will
you do something for me I would prefer to coin, Hanse?'

Very seriously, relaxing for once, he nodded. 'Without question.'

' My daughter is very young and  thinks you are just so romantic a  figure. Will
you just pretend she is your sister?'

'Oh you  would not  want that.  Passionflower,' he  said, in  one of  those rare
indications of  what sort  of childhood  he must  have had.  'She is my friend's
daughter and I shall call  her cousin. Besides, she saw  me ... that way. I  may
not be able to look her in the eyes again.'

She took those lean restless  hands of a thief proud  never to have hurt any  he
robbed. 'You will,  Hanse. You will.  It was god-sorcery,  and no embarrassment.
Will you now be careful?'

'I will.'

She studied his eyes. 'But you are going to find him.'

'I am.'


The adherents  of the  most ancient  goddess Theba  went hooded  to their little
temple. This was their  way. It also made  it easier for the  government to keep
them under surveillance, and made it easy for Hanse to slip among them. A little
tilt to his shoulder, a slight favouring  of one leg under the dull brown  robe,
and he was not the lithely gliding Shadowspawn at all.

The services were dull and he had never liked the odour of incense. It made  him
want to sneeze and go to sleep, both at once. Insofar as he ever gave thought to
religion,  he  leaned  towards  a   sort  of  loyalty  to  the   demigod  Rander
Rehabilitatus. He endured, and he observed. This goddess's worship in  Sanctuary
included two blind adherents. Both carried staffs. Though only one was white, it
was not in the grip of a left-handed man.

Finding his quarry really was as  simple as that. On deserting his  partner, the
murderous  thief had  sneered 'Theba  take you,'  and Moonflower  had Seen  that
goddess, or at least the likeness of her icons and amulets. She had no more than
forty worshippers here, and only this one (part-time) temple. The thief had also
struck away the terror-stick with his right hand and used his left to drive  the
dagger into his victim - and to use the staff on Hanse.

There came the time of Communing In Her. Hanse watched what the others did. They
mingled, and a  buzz rose as  they said nice  silly loving peace-things  to each
other in the name of Her. The  usual meaningless ritual; 'peace' was a word  and
life and its exigencies were another matter. Hanse mingled.

'Peace and love to you, brother,'  a woman said from within her  wine-dark cowl,
and her hand slipped into Hanse's robe and he caught her wrist.

'Peace and defter fingers to you, sister,' he said quietly, and went around  her
towards his goal.  To be certain,  he came cowl  to cowl with  the man with  the
white stick and, smiling,  made a shamefully obscene  gesture. The cowl and  the
staff did not move; a hand moved gently out to touch him.

'Her peace remain on you, my brother,'  the blind man said in a high  voice, and
Hanse mouthed words, then turned.

'You rotten slime,' a  cowl striped in green  and red hissed. 'Poor  blind Sorad
has been among us for  years and no one ever  made such a nasty gesture  to him.
Who are you, anyhow?'

'One who thinks that  other blind man is  not blind and not  one of us, and  was
testing - brother. Have you ever seen him before?'

His accoster - burly, in that striped Myrsevadan robe, looked around. 'Well  ...
no. The one in the gloves?'

'Yes. I think they are because his stick  - yes, peace to you too, sister -  has
just been painted.'

'You think it's a disguised weapon? That.he's from the... palace?'

'No.  I think  the prince-governor  couldn't care  a rat's  whisker about  us.'
Substituting the pronoun  was a last  instant thought, and  Hanse felt proud  of
that touch. Playing 'I'm just like you but he is bad' had got him out of several
scrapes. 'I do  think he is  a spy, though.  That priest from  Ranke, who thinks
every temple should be closed down  except a glorious new one  to Vash - Vashi 
whatever they call him. I'll bet that's his spy.'

That made the loyal Thebite quiver in rage! He went directly towards the man  in
the forest green cloak,  with the brown stick.  Hanse, edging along towards  the
entrance of what was by day  a belt-maker's shop, watched Striped Robe  speak to
the man with the staff. An answer came, as Hanse moved.

Hanse didn't hear the reply; he heard  'May all your days be bright in  Her name
and She take  you when you  are tired of  life, brother.' This  from the fat man
beside him, in a tent-sized cloak.

'Oh, thank you, brother. And on you,  peace in Her n-' Hanse broke off  when the
terrified screaming began.

It was the big fellow  in the robe of green  and red stripes, and his  cowl fell
back to show his fear-twisted face. Naturally no one understood, and other cries
arose amid the milling of robed,  faceless people. Two did understand, and  both
moved towards the door. One was closer. He hurried forth, running - and outside,
cut left out of view of the  doorway and swung swiftly back. He already  had the
little jar of vinegar  out of his dull  brown robe, and the  cork pulled. Inside
the temple: clamour.

The man with  the gloves and  brown walking stick  hurried through the  door and
turned left; had  he not, Hanse  would have called.  The fellow had  no time for
anything before Hanse sent the vinegar sloshing within his hood.

'Ah!' Naturally the man ducked his head as the liquid drenched him and   entered
both eyes. Since he was  not blind and not accustomed  to carrying a staff as  a
part of him, he dropped it to rush both hands to his face. Hanse swallowed  hard
before snatching up the stick by its handle. He kicked the moaning fellow in the
knee-cap, and ran. The  god-weapon seemed hummingly alive  in his hand, so  much
that he wanted to throw it down and keep running. He did not, and it exerted  no
other effect on him. Just around the corner he paused for an importuning beggar,
who soon had the gift of a nice brown, cowled robe. Since it was thrown over him
as he sat, he never saw the generous giver. He had been swallowed by the shadows
once the beggar got his head free of the encumbering woollen.

'Here, you little lizard, where do you think you're running to, hah?'

That from the brutish swaggering desert tradesman who grabbed at Hanse as he ran
by. Well, he was not of the city, and did not know who he laid big hand on.  Nor
was he likely  to aught but  hie himself out  of Sanctuary, once  he returned to
normal - doubtless robbed. Besides, a test really should be made to be sure, and
Hanse poked him.

This was the staff of ensorcelment, all right.

Hurrying on his way, Hanse began to smile.

He had the stick and the murdering thief who had used it on him would not be too
nimble for a long, long time, and the robe he had snitched off a drying line was
in the possession of a beggar who would be needing it in a few months, and Hanse
had his little message from the prince-governor. It avowed - so Hanse was  told,
as he did not read - that 'he  you specify shall lend full aid in the  endeavour
you specify, provided it is legal in full, in return for your returning  another
wand to us'.

Hanse had laughed when he  read that last; even a  prince had a sense of  humour
and could allude to  Hanse's having stolen his  Savankh, rod of authority,  less
than a month ago.  And now Shadowspawn  would have the  aid of big  strong super
legal  Tempus in  regaining two  bags of  silver coin  from a  well up  in the
supposedly  haunted  ruins of  Eaglenest.  Hanse hoped  Prince  Kadakithis would
appreciate the  humour in  that, too:  the bagged  booty had  come from  him, as
ransom  for the  official baton  of his  imperial authority  in Sanctuary.  Even
Tempus's krrf had brought in a bit of silver.

And now ... Hanse's grin broadened. Suppose he just went about a second  illicit
entry of the  palace? Suppose  a blind  man showed  up among  the swarm  of alms
seekers  to  be admitted  into  the courtyard  two  days hence,  in  accord with
Kadakithis's people wooing  custom? Shadowspawn would  not only hand  this awful
staff to  the prince-governor,  he would  at the  same time  provide .,  graphic
demonstration of the palace's pitiable security.


Unfortunately, Tempus had taken charge of security. The hooded blind beggar  was
challenged at the  gate two days  thence, and the  Hell Hound Quag  suspiciously
snatched the staff from  him. When the disguised  Hanse objected, he was  struck
with it. Well,  at least that  way it was  proven that he  had brought the right
stick in good faith,  and that way he  did get to spend  a night in the  palace,
however unpleasant in his state of terror.



TO GUARD THE GUARDIANS
By Robert Lynn Asprin

The Hell Hounds were now a common sight in Sanctuary so the appearance of one in
the bazaar created little stir, save for the concealment of a few smuggled wares
and a price increase on everything else. However, when two appeared together, as
they did today,  it was enough  to silence casual  conversation and draw  uneasy
stares, though the more observant vendors noted that the pair were engrossed  in
their own argument and did not even glance at the stalls they were passing.

'But the man has offended me...' the darker of the pair snarled.

'He  offends everyone,'  his companion  countered, 'it's  his way.  I tell  you,
Razkuli, I've heard him say things  to the prince himself that would  have other
men flayed and blinded. You're a fool to take it personally.'

'But, Zalbar...'

'I know, I know -  he offends you; and Quag  bores you and Arman is  an arrogant
braggart. Well, this whole town offends  me, but that doesn't give me  the right
to put it to the sword. Nothing Tempus has said to you warrants a blood feud.'

'It is done.' Razkuli thrust one fist against his other palm as • they walked.

'It is not done until you act on  your promise, and if you do /'// move  to stop
you. I won't have the men in my command killing each other.'

The two  men walked  silently for  several moments,  each lost  in his  own dark
thoughts.

'Look, my friend,' Zalbar sighed, 'I've  already had one of my men  killed under
scandalous circumstances.  I  don't  want  to  answer  for  another  incident  
particularly if it involves you. Can't you see Tempus is trying to goad you into
a fight? - a fight you can't win.'

'No one lives that  I've seen over an  arrow,' Razkuli said ominously,  his eyes
narrowing on an imaginary target.

'Murder,  Razkuli? I  never thought  I'd see  the day  you'd sink  to being  an
assassin.'

There was a sharp intake of breath and Razkuli faced his comrade with eyes  that
showed a glint of  madness. Then the spark  faded and the small  man's shoulders
relaxed. 'You're right, my friend,' he said, shaking his head, 'I would never do
that. Anger speeds my tongue ahead of reason.'

'As it did when  you vowed blood-feud. You've  survived countless foes who  were
mortal; don't try the favour of the gods by seeking an enemy who is not.'

'Then the  rumours about  Tempus are  true?' Razkuli  asked, his  eyes narrowing
again.

'I don't know, there are things about him which are difficult to explain by  any
other logic.  Did you  see how  rapidly his  leg healed?  We both know men whose
soldiering career was ended  after they were caught  under a horse -  yet he was
standing duty again within the week.'

'Such a man is an affront  against Nature.'

'Then let Nature take  vengeance  on him,' Zalbar laughed, clapping  a  friendly
hand on  his comrade's   shoulder, 'and  free us  for  more worthwhile pastimes.
Come, I'll buy  you lunch. It  will be a pleasant change from barracks food.'

Haakon, the sweetmeats vendor, brightened as the two soldiers approached him and
waited  patiently  while  they  made  their  selections  from  his   spiced-meat
turnovers.

'That will be three coppers,' he smiled through yellowed teeth. 'Three coppers?'
Razkuli exclaimed angrily, but Zalbar silenced him with a nudge in the ribs.

'Here,  fellow...' the  Hell-Hound commander  dropped some  coins into  Haakon's
outstretched hand, 'take four. Those of  us from the Capitol are used  to paying
full value for quality goods -though  I suppose that this far from  civilization
you have to adjust the prices to accommodate the poorer folk.'

The barb went home and Zalbar was  rewarded by a glare of pure hatred  before he
turned away, drawing Razkuli with him. 'Four coppers! You were being overcharged
at three!'

'I  know.'  Zalbar  winked. 'But  I  refuse  to give  them  the  satisfaction of
haggling. I find  it's worth the  extra copper to  see their faces  when I imply
that they're selling below  value - it's one  of the few pleasures  available in
this hellhole.'

'I never thought of it that way,' Razkuli said with a laugh, 'but you're  right.
My father would have  been livid if someone  deliberately overpaid him. Do  me a
favour and let me try it when we buy the wine.'

Razkuli's refusal to bargain brought much the same reaction from the wineseller.
The dark mood of their conversation as they had entered the bazaar had  vanished
and they were ready to eat with calm humour.

'You  provided  the  food  and drink,  so  I'll  provide  the setting,'  Razkuli
declared, tucking the  wine-flask into his  belt. 'I know  a spot which  is both
pleasant and relaxing.'

'It must be outside the city.'

'It is, just outside the Common Gate. Come on, the city won't miss our  presence
for an hour or so.'

Zalbar was easily persuaded though  more from curiosity than belief.  Except for
occasional  patrols along  the Street  of Red  Lanterns he  rarely got  outside
Sanctuary's North Wall and  had never explored the  area to the northwest  where
Razkuli. was leading him.

It was a  different world here,  almost as if  they had stepped  through a magic
portal into another land. The  buildings were scattered, with large  open spaces
between them, in  contrast to the  cramped shops and  narrow alleys of  the city
proper.  The  air was  refreshingly  free from  the  stench of  unwashed  bodies
jostling each other in crowded streets. Zalbar relaxed in the peaceful surround
. ings. The pressures of patrolling  the hateful town slipped away like  a heavy
cloak,  allowing him  to look  forwards to  an uninterrupted  meal in  pleasant
company.

'Perhaps you could speak to Tempus? We needn't like each other, but if he  could
find another target for his taunts, it would do much towards easing my hatred.'

Zalbar shot a wary glance at his  comrade, but detected none of the blind  anger
which he had earlier expressed. The  question seemed to be an honest  attempt on
Razkuli's part to find a corn-promise solution to an intolerable situation.

'I would, if I thought it would help,' he sighed reluctantly, 'but I fear I have
little influence on him. If anything, it would only make matters worse. He would
redouble his attacks to prove he wasn't afraid of me either.'

'But you're his superior officer,' Razkuli argued.

'Officially, perhaps,'  his friend  shrugged, 'but  we both  know there are gaps
between what is official and what is  true. Tempus has the Prince's ear. He's  a
free agent here and follows my orders only when it suits him.'

'You've kept him out of the Aphrodesia House...'

'Only because I  had convinced the  prince of the  necessity of maintaining  the
good will of  that House before  Tempus arrived,' Zalbar  countered, shaking his
head. 'I had  to go to  the prince to  curb Tempus's ill-conduct  and earned his
hatred for it. You notice he still does what he pleases at the Lily Garden - and
the  prince looks  the other  way. No,  I wouldn't  count on  my influence  over
Tempus. I don't think  he would physically attack  me because of my  position in
the Prince's bodyguard.  I also don't  think he would  come to my  aid if I were
hard-pressed in a fight.'

Just then Zalbar noticed a small flower garden nestled beside a . house not  far
from their  path. A  man was  at work  in the  garden, watering and pruning. The
sight created a sudden wave of nostalgia in the Hell Hound. How long had it been
since he stood outside the Emperor's Palace in the Capitol, fighting boredom  by
watching  the  gardeners  pampering  the  flowered  grounds?  It  seemed  like a
lifetime. Despite  the fact  that he  was a  soldier by  profession, or  perhaps
because he  was a  soldier, he  had always  admired the  calm beauty of flowers.

'Let's eat there ...  under that tree,' he  suggested, indicating a spot  with a
view of the garden. 'It's as  good a place as any.' Razkuli  hesitated, glancing
at the gardened  house and started  to say something,  then shrugged and  veered
towards  the tree.  Zalbar saw  the mischievous  smile flit  briefly across  his
comrade's face, but  ignored it, preferring  to contemplate the  peaceful garden
instead.

The pair dined in the manner of hardened, but off-duty, campaigners. Rather than
facing  each  other,  or  sitting  side-by-side,  the  two  assumed back-to-back
positions  in the  shade of  a spreading  tree. The  earthenware wine-flask  was
carefully placed  to one  side, but  in easy  reach of  both. Not  only did  the
arrangement give them a full circle of vision to ensure that their meal would be
uninterrupted, it also allowed a brief illusion  of privacy for the individual 
a rare commodity to those whose profession required that every moment be  shared
with at least a dozen colleagues. To further that illusion they ate in  silence.
Conversation would be neither attempted  nor tolerated until both were  finished
with their meal. It was the stance of men who trusted each other completely.

Although his  position allowed  him a  clear view  of the  flower garden, Zalbar
found his thoughts wandering back to his earlier conversation with Razkuli. Part
of his job  was to maintain  peace among the  Hell Hounds, at  least to a  point
where their personal differences did not interfere with the performance of their
duties. To that end he had soothed his friend's ruffled feathers and forestalled
any open fighting within the force ... for the time being, at least. With  peace
thus preserved, Zalbar could admit to himself that he agreed wholeheartedly with
Razkuli.

Loudmouthed bullies were nothing new in the army, but Tempus was a breed  apart.
As a devout believer in discipline and law, Zalbar was disgusted and appalled by
Tempus's attitudes  and conduct.  What was  worse, Tempus  did have the prince's
ear, so Zalbar was powerless to move against him despite the growing rumours  of
immoral and illegal conduct.

The Hell Hound's brow furrowed as he reflected upon the things he had heard  and
seen. Tempus openly used krrf, both on  duty and off. He was rapidly building  a
reputation for  brutality and  sadism among  the not  easily shocked citizens of
Sanctuary. There were even rumours that he was methodically hunting and  killing
the blue-masked sell-swords employed by the exgladiator, Jubal.

Zalbar had no  love for that  crime-lord who traded  in slaves to  mask his more
illicit activities, but neither  could he tolerate a  Hell Hound taking it  upon
himself to be judge  and executioner. But he  had been ordered by  the prince to
allow Tempus free rein and was powerless to even investigate the rumours: a fine
state of affairs when the law-enforcers became the lawbreakers and the lawgiver'
only moved to shelter them.

A scream rent  the air, interrupting  Zalbar's reverie and  bringing him to  his
feet, sword in hand. As he cast about, searching for the source of the noise, he
remembered  he  had  heard  screams  like that  before  ...  though  not  on any
battlefield. It wasn't a  scream of pain, hatred,  or terror but the  heartless,
soulless sounds of one  without hope and assaulted  by horror too great  for the
mind to comprehend.

The silence was  completely shattered by  a second scream  and this time  Zalbar
knew  the source  was the  beautifully gardened  house. He  watched in  growing
disbelief as the gardener calmly continued his work, not even bothering to  look
up despite the now frequent screams.  Either the man was deaf or  Zalbar himself
was going mad, reacting to imaginary noises from a best-forgotten past.  Turning
to Razkuli for  confirmation, Zalbar was  outraged to find  his friend not  only
still seated but grinning ear-to-ear.

'Now do you see why I was willing to pass this spot by?' the swarthy Hell  Hound
said with a laugh. 'Perhaps the next time I offer to lead you won't be so  quick
to exert your rank.'

'You were expecting this?' Zalbar demanded, unsoothed by Razkuli's humour.

'Of course, you should be thankful it didn't start until we were nearly finished
with our meal.'

Zalbar's retort was cut off by a drawn out piercing cry that rasped against  ear
and mind and defied human endurance with its

length.

'Before you  go charging  to the  rescue,'' Razkuli  commented, ignoring the now
fading outburst  of pain,  'you should  know I've  already looked  into it. What
you're hearing is a slave responding to its master's attentive care: a situation
entirely within the law and therefore no concern of ours. It might interest  you
to know that the owner of that building is a ...'

'Kurd!' Zalbar breathed through taut lips, glaring at the house as if it were an
arch-enemy.

'You know him?'

'We met once, back at the Capitol. That's why he's here ... or at least why he's
not still there.'

'Then  you  know  his  business?'  Razkuli  scowled,  a  bit  deflated  that his
revelations were  no surprise.  'I'll admit  I find  it distasteful, but there's
nothing we can do about it.'

'We'll see,' Zalbar announced darkly, starting towards the house.

'Where're you going?'

'To pay Kurd a visit.'

'Then I'll see you back at  the barracks.' Razkuli shuddered. 'I've been  inside
that house once already, and I'll not enter again unless it's under orders.'

Zalbar made no note of his friend's departure though he did sheathe his sword as
he approached  the house.  The impending  battle would  not require conventional
weapons.

'Ho there!' he hailed the gardener. 'Tell your master I wish to speak with him.'

'He's busy,' the man snarled, 'can't you hear?'

'Too busy to speak with one of the prince's personal guard?' Zalbar  challenged,
raising an eyebrow.

'He's spoken to them  before and each time  they've gone away and  I've lost pay
for allowing the interruption.'

'Tell him  it's Zalbar...'  the Hell  Hound ordered,  '...your master will speak
with me, or would you like to deal with me in his stead?'

Though he made no move towards  his weapons Zalbar's voice and stance  convinced
the  gardener to  waste no  time. The  gnome-like man  abandoned his  chores to
disappear into the house.

As he waited Zalbar surveyed the flowers again, but knowledge of Kurd's presence
had ruined his  appreciation of floral  beauty. Instead of  lifting his spirits,
the  bright  blossoms seemed  a  horrifying incongruity,  like  viewing a  gaily
coloured fungus growing on a rotting corpse.

As Zalbar turned away from the  flowers, Kurd emerged into the daylight.  Though
it  had been  five years  since they  had seen  each other,  the older  man was
sufficiently  unchanged  that  Zalbar  recognized  him  instantly:  the  stained
dishevelled dress of one who sleeps  in his clothes, the unwashed, unkempt  hair
and beard, as well as the cadaverously thin body with its long skeletal  fingers
and pasty complexion. Clearly Kurd had not discontinued his habit of  neglecting
his own body in the pursuit of his work.

'Good day  ... citizen,'  the Hell  Hound's smile  did not  disguise the sarcasm
poisoning his greeting.

'It is you,' Kurd declared, squinting to study the other's features. 'I  thought
we were done with each other when I left Ranke.'

'I  think  you shall  continue  to see  me  until you  see  fit to  change  your
occupation.'

'My  work is  totally within  the limits  of the  law.' The  thin man  bristled,
betraying, for a  moment, the strength  of will hidden  in his outwardly  feeble
body.

'So you said in Ranke. I still find it offensive, without redeeming merit.'

'Without redeeming...' Kurd shrieked, then words failed him. His lips tightened,
he seized Zalbar by the arm and began pulling him towards the house. 'Come  with
me now,' he instructed. 'Let  me show you my work  and explain what I am  doing.
Perhaps then you will be able to grasp the importance of my studies.'

In his career Zalbar had faced  death in many guises and done  it unflinchingly.
Now, however, he drew back in horror.

'I ... That won't be necessary,' he insisted.

'Then you  continue to  blindly condemn  my actions  without allowing  me a fair
hearing?' Kurd pointed a bent, bony finger at the Hell Hound, a note of  triumph
in his voice.

Trapped by his own convictions, Zalbar swallowed hard and steeled himself. 'Very
well, lead on. But, I warn you - my opinions are not easily swayed.'

Zalbar's resolve wavered once they entered the building and he was assaulted  by
the smells of its interior. Then he caught sight of the gardener smirking at him
from the doorway and set his face in  ' an expressionless mask as he was led  up
the-,stairs to the second floor.

All that the Hell Hound had ever  heard or imagined about Kurd's work failed  to
prepare him for the scene which greeted him when the pale man opened the door to
his workshop. Half a  dozen large, heavy tables  lined the walls, each  set at a
strange angle so their  surfaces were nearly upright.  They were not unlike  the
wooden frames  court artists  used to  hold their  work while  painting. All the
tables were  fitted with  leather harnesses  and straps.  The wood  and leather,
both, showed dried and crusted bloodstains. Four of the tables were occupied.

'Most  so-called medical  men only  repeat what  has gone  before...' Kurd  was
saying, '...the few who  do attempt new  techniques do so  in a slipshod,  trial
and-error fashion born of desperation and ignorance. If the patient dies, it  is
difficult to  determine if  the cause  was the  original affliction,  or the new
treatment itself.  Here, under  controlled conditions,  I actually  increase our
knowledge of the human body and its frailties. Watch your step, please...'

Grooves had been cut in the floor, running along beneath the tables and  meeting
in a shallow pit at the room's far end. As he stepped over one, Zalbar  realized
that the system was designed to guide the flow of spilled blood. He shuddered.

There was a naked man on the first table and when he saw them coming he began to
writhe against his bonds. One arm was  gone from the elbow down and he  beat the
stump against the tabletop. Gibberings poured from his mouth. Zalbar noted  with
disgust that the man's tongue had been cut out.

'Here,' Kurd announced, pointing to a gaping wound in the man's shoulder, 'is an
example of my studies.'

The man had obviously lost  control of his bodily functions.  Excretions stained
his legs and the table. Kurd paid no attention to this, gesturing Zalbar  closer
to the table  as he used  his long fingers  to spread the  edges of the shoulder
wound. 'I have identified a point in the body which, if pressure like this ...'

The man shrieked, his body arching against the restraining straps.

'Stop!' Zalbar shouted, losing any pretence of disinterest.

It was unlikely he  could be heard over  the tortured sounds of  the victim, but
Kurd withdrew his bloody finger and the man sagged back on the table.

'Well, did you see it?' the pale man asked eagerly.

'See what?' Zalbar blinked, still shaken by what he had witnessed.

'His stump, man! It stopped moving! Pressure  or damage to this point can rob  a
man of the use of his arm. Here, I'll show you again.'

'No!' the Hell Hound ordered quickly, 'I've seen enough.'

'Then you see the value of my discovery?'

'Ummm ... where do you get your ... subjects?' Zalbar evaded.

'From slavers, of course.' Kurd frowned. 'You can see the brands quite  clearly.
If I  worked with  anything but  slaves ...  well, that  would be against Rankan
law.'

'And how do  you get them  onto the tables?  Slaves or not,  I should think they
would   fight   to   the   death   rather   than   submit   to   your   knives.'

'There is a herbalist in town,' the  pale man explained, 'he supplies me with  a
mild potion that  renders them senseless.  When they awaken,  it's too late  for
effective resistance.'

Zalbar started to  ask another question,  but Kurd held  up a restraining  hand.
'You still haven't answered my question: do you now see the value of my work?'

The Hell Hound  forced himself to  look around the  room again. 'I  see that you
genuinely believe the knowledge you seek is worthwhile,' he said carefully, 'but
I still feel subjecting men and women  to this, even if they are slaves,  is too
high a price.'

'But it's legal!' Kurd insisted. 'What I do here breaks no Rankan laws.'

' Ranke has many laws, you should remember that from our last meeting. Few  live
within all of them  and while there is  some discretion exercised between  which
laws are  enforced and  which are  overlooked, 1  tell you  now that  I will  be
personally watching for  anything which will  allow me to  move against you.  It
would be easier on both  of us if you simply  moved on now ... for  I won't rest
while you are within my patrol-range.'

'I am a law-abiding citizen.' The pale man glared, drawing himself up. 'I  won't
be driven from my home like a common

criminal.'

'So you said before.' The Hell Hound smiled as he turned to go. 'But, you are no
longer in Ranke - remember that.'

'That's right,' Kurd  shouted after him,  'we are no  longer in Ranke.  Remember
that yourself. Hell Hound.'


Four days later Zalbar's confidence had ebbed considerably. Finishing his  night
patrol of the city he turned down the Processional towards the wharves. This was
becoming a habit with him now, a final off-duty stretch-of-the-legs to  organize
his thoughts in solitude before  retiring to the crowded barracks.  Though there
was still activity back in the Maze,  this portion of town had been long  asleep
and it was easy for the Hell Hound to lose himself in his ponderings as he paced
slowly along the moon-shadowed street.

The prince  had rejected  his appeal,  pointing out  that harassing a relatively
honest citizen was a  poor use of time,  particularly with the wave  of killings
sweeping Sanctuary. Zalbar could not  argue with the prince's logic.  Ever since
that Weaponshop had appeared, suddenly, in the Maze to dispense its deadly brand
of magic,  killings were  not only  more frequent  but of  an uglier nature than
usual. Perhaps now that the shop had disappeared the madness would ease, but  in
the  meantime he  could ill  afford the  time to  pursue Kurd  with the  vigour
necessary to drive the vivisectionist from town.

For a  moment Kurd's  impassioned defence  of his  work flashed  across Zalbar's
mind, only to be quickly repressed. New medical knowledge was worth having,  but
slaves were still people. The systematic torture of another being in the name of
knowledge was...

'Cover!'

Zalbar was prone on the ground before the cry had fully registered in his  mind.
Reflexes honed  by years  in service  to the  Empire had  him rolling, crawling,
scrabbling along the dirt in search  of shelter without pausing to identify  the
source of  the warning.  Twice, before  he reached  the shadows  of an alley, he
heard the unmistakable  hisss-pock of arrows  striking nearby: ample  proof that
the danger was not imaginary.

Finally, in the alley's relative security, he snaked his sword from its scabbard
and breathlessly  scanned the  rooftops for  the bowman  assassin. A  flicker of
movement atop a  building across the  street caught his  eyes, but it  failed to
repeat itself. He strained to penetrate  the darkness. There was a crying  moan,
ending in a cough; moments later, a poor imitation of a night bird's whistle.

Though he was sure someone had just died, Zalbar didn't twitch a muscle, holding
his position like a hunting cat. Who had died? The assassin? Or the person whose
call had warned him of danger? Even if it were the assassin there might still be
an accomplice lurking nearby.

As if in answer  to this last thought  a figure detached itself  from a darkened
doorway and moved to the centre of  the street. It paused, placed hands on  hips
and hailed the alley wherein Zalbar had taken refuge.

'It's safe now. Hell Hound. We've rescued you from your own carelessness.'

Regaining his feet  Zalbar sheathed his  sword and stepped  into the open.  Even
before being  hailed he  had recognized  the dark  figure. A  blue hawk-mask and
cloak could not hide the size or colouring of his rescuer, and if they had,  the
Hell Hound would have known the smooth grace of those movements anywhere.

'What carelessness is that, Jubal?' he asked, hiding his own annoyance.

'You  have  used  this route  three  nights  in a  row,  now,'  the ex-gladiator
announced. 'That's all the pattern an assassin needs.'

The Negro crime-lord did not seem  surprised or annoyed that his .  disguise had
been penetrated.  If anything,  Jubal gave  an impression  of being pleased with
himself as he bantered with the Hell Hound.

Zalbar realized that Jubal was right: on duty or off, a predictable pattern  was
an  invitation  for ambush.  He  was spared  the  embarrassment of  making  this
admission, however, as the unseen saviour  on the rooftops chose this moment  to
dump the assassin's body to the street. The two men studied it with disdain.

'Though I  appreciate your  intervention,' the  Hell Hound  commented drily, 'it
would have been nice to take him alive. I'll admit a passing curiosity as to who
sent him.'

'I can tell you that.' The hawk-masked figure smiled grimly. 'It's Kurd's  money
that filled that assassin's  purse, though it puzzles  me why he would  bear you
such a grudge.'

'You knew about this in advance?'

'One of my informants overheard the  hiring in the Vulgar Unicorn. It's  amazing
how many normally careful people forget that a man can hear as well as talk.'

'Why didn't you send word  to warn me in advance?'  'I had no proof.' The  black
man shrugged. 'It's doubtful  my witness would be  willing to testify in  court.
Besides, I still owed you a debt from our last meeting... or have you  forgotten
you saved my life once?'

'I haven't forgotten. As I told you then, I was only doing my duty. You owed  me
nothing.'

'... And I was only doing my duty as a Rankan citizen in assisting you tonight.'
Jubal's teeth flashed in the moonlight.

'Well, whatever your motive, you have my thanks.'

Jubal was silent  a moment. 'If  you truly wish  to express your  gratitude,' he
said at last, 'would you join me now for a drink? There's something I would like
to discuss with you.'

'I... I'm  afraid I  can't. It's  a long  walk to  your ...  house and I '~ have
duties tomorrow.' .

'I was thinking of the Vulgar Unicorn.'

'The  Vulgar  Unicorn?'  Zalbar  stammered,  genuinely  astonished.  'Where   my
assassination was planned. I can't go in there.'

'Why not?'

'Well... if for no other reason than that I am a Hell Hound. It would do neither
of us any good to be seen together publicly, much less in the Vulgar Unicorn.'

'You could wear my mask and cloak. That would hide your uniform and face.  Then,
to any onlooker it would  only appear that I was  having a drink with one  of my
men.'

For a moment Zalbar wavered in indecision, then the audacity of a Hell Hound  in
a blue hawk-mask seized  his fancy and he  laughed aloud. 'Why not?'  he agreed,
reaching for the offered disguise. 'I've always wondered what the inside of that
place looked like.'


Zalbar had not realized  how bright the moonlight  was until he stepped  through
the door of the Vulgar Unicorn. A few small oil lamps were the only illumination
and those were shielded towards the wall, leaving most of the interior in  heavy
shadow. Though he  could see figures  huddled at several  tables as he  followed
Jubal into the main room, he could not make out any individual's features.

There was  one, however,  whose face  he did  not need  to see, the unmistakably
gaunt form of Hakiem the storyteller  slouched at a central table. A  small bowl
of wine  sat before  him, apparently  forgotten, as  the tale-spinner  nodded in
near-slumber. Zalbar  harboured a  secret liking  for the  ancient character and
would have passed the table quietly,  but Jubal caught the Hell Hound's  eye and
winked broadly. Withdrawing a coin from his sword-belt, the slaver tossed it  in
an easy arch towards the storyteller's table.

Hakiem's hand moved  like a  flicker of  light and  the coin  disappeared in mid
flight. His drowsy manner remained unchanged.

'That's payment enough  for a hundred  stories, old man,'  Jubal rumbled softly,
'but tell them somewhere else ... and about someone else.'

Moving  with  quiet  dignity,  the storyteller  rose  to  his  feet, bestowed  a
withering gaze on both of them, and  stalked regally from the room. His bowl  of
wine had disappeared with his departure.

In the brief moment that their eyes met, Zalbar had felt an intense intelligence
and was certain that  the old man had penetrated both  mask and cloak to  coldly
observe his  true  identity. Hastily revising  his opinion  of  the  gaunt  tale
-spinner, the  Hell  Hound recalled  Jubal's  description of  an informant  whom
people forgot could hear  as well as see  and knew whose spying  had truly saved
his life.

The slaver sank down at the recently vacated table and immediately received  two
unordered goblets of expensive qualis.  Settling next to him, Zalbar  noted that
this table had  a clear view  of all entrances  and exits of  the tavern and his
estimation of Hakiem went up yet another notch.

'If I had  thought of it  sooner, I would  have suggested that  your man on  the
rooftop join us,' the Hell Hound commented. 'I feel I owe him a drink of thanks.'

'That man is  a woman, Moria;  she works the  darkness better than  I do ... and
without the benefits of protective coloration.'

'Well, I'd still like to thank her.'

'I'd advise against it.'  The slaver grinned. 'She  hates Rankans, and the  Hell
Hounds in particular. She only intervened at my orders.'

'You remind me of several questions.'  Zalbar set his goblet down. 'Why  did you
act on my behalf tonight? And how is  it that you know the cry the army  uses to
warn of archers?'

'In good time. First you must answer a question of mine. I'm not used to  giving
out information  for free,  and since  I told  you the  identity of  your enemy,
perhaps now you can tell me why Kurd would set an assassin on your trail?'

After  taking  a  thoughtful sip  of  his  drink, Zalbar  began  to  explain the
situation between himself and Kurd. As the story unfolded, the Hell Hound  found
he was saying more than was necessary, and was puzzled as to why he would reveal
to Jubal the anger  and bitterness he had  kept secret even from  his own force.
Perhaps, it was because, unlike his  comrades whom he respected, Zalbar saw  the
slaver as a man so corrupt that  his own darkest thoughts and doubts would  seem
commonplace by comparison.

Jubal listened in silence until the Hell Hound was finished, then nodded slowly.
'Yes, that makes sense now,' he murmured. .

'The irony is that at  the moment of attack I  was bemoaning my inability to  do
anything about Kurd.  For a while,  at least, an  assassin is unnecessary.  I am
under orders to leave Kurd alone.'

Instead  of  laughing, Jubal  studied  his opposite  thoughtfully.  'Strange you
should say  that.' He  spoke with  measured care.  'I also  have a  problem I am
currently unable to deal with. Perhaps we can solve each other's problems.'

'Is  that  what  you  wanted  to  talk  to  me  about?'  Zalbar  asked, suddenly
suspicious.

'In a way. Actually this is better. Now, in return for the favour I must ask,  I
can offer something you want. If you address yourself to my problem, I'll put an
end to Kurd's practice for you.'

'I assume that what you want is illegal. If you really think I'd...'

'It is not illegal!' Jubal spat with venom. 'I don't need your help to break the
law, that's easy enough to do despite the efforts of your so-called elite force.
No, Hell Hound, I  find it necessary to  offer you a bribe  to do your job  - to
enforce the law.'

'Any citizen can appeal to any  Hell Hound for assistance.' Zalbar felt  his own
anger grow. 'If it is indeed within the law, you don't have to...'

'Fine!'  the  slaver  interrupted. 'Then,  as  a  Rankan citizen  I  ask  you to
investigate and stop a wave of  murders - someone is killing my  people; hunting
blue-masks through the streets as if they were diseased animals.'

'I ... I see.'

'And I see that this comes as no surprise,' Jubal snarled. 'Well, Hell Hound, do
your duty.  I make  no pretence  about my  people, but  they are  being executed
without a trial or hearing. That's  murder. Or do you hesitate because  it's one
of your own who's doing the killing?'

Zalbar's head  came up  with a  snap and  Jubal met  his stare with a humourless
smile.

'That's right,  I know  the murderer,  not that  it's been  difficult to  learn.
Tempus has been open enough with his beagging.'

'Actually,' Zalbar mused drily, 'I was wondering why you haven't dealt with  him
yourself  if  you   know  he's  guilty.   I've  heard  hawk-masks   have  killed
transgressors when their offence was far less certain.'

Now it was Jubal who averted his eyes in discomfort. 'We've tried,' he admitted,
'Tempus seems exceptionally hard to down. Some of my men went against my  orders
and used magical weapons. The result was four more bloody masks to his credit.'

The Hell Hound could hear the desperate appeal in the slaver's confession.

'I cannot allow him to continue his  sport, but the price of stopping him  grows
fearfully high. I'm reduced to asking for your intervention. You, more than  the
others, have prided  yourself in performing  your duties in  strict adherence to
the codes of justice. Tell me, doesn't the law apply equally to everyone?'

A dozen excuses  and explanations leapt  to Zalbar's lips,  then a cold  wave of
anger swept them away. 'You're right, though I never thought you'd be the one to
point out my duty  to me. A killer  in uniform is still  a killer and should  be
punished  for his  crimes ...  all of  them. If  Tempus is  your murderer,  I'll
personally see to it that he's dealt with.'

'Very well.' Jubal  nodded. 'And  in return,  I'll fill  my end  of the bargain 
Kurd will no longer work in Sanctuary.'

Zalbar opened his  mouth to protest.  The temptation was  almost too great  - if
Jubal could  make good  his promise  - but,  no, 'I'd  have to  insist that your
actions remain within the law,' he murmured reluctantly. 'I can't ask you to  do
anything illegal.'

'Not only is it legal, it's done! Kurd is out of business as of now.'

'What do you mean?'

'Kurd can't work without subjects,'  the slaver smiled,  'and I'm  his supplier 
- or  I was. Not only have  I ended his supply of  slaves, I'll spread the  word
to  the other slavers that  if they deal with  him I'll undercut their prices in
the other markets and drive them out of town as well.'

Zalbar smiled with new  distaste beneath his mask.  'You knew what he  was doing
with the slaves and you dealt with him anyway?'

'Killing slaves for knowledge is no worse than having slaves kill each other  in
the arena for entertainment. Either is an unpleasant reality in our world.'

Zalbar winced at the sarcasm in the slaver's voice, but was unwilling to abandon
his position.

'We  have different  views of  fighting. You  were forced  into the  arena as  a
gladiator  while  I  freely enlisted  in  the  army. Still,  we  share  a common
experience: however terrible  the battle: however  frightful the odds,  we had a
chance. We could fight back and survive  - or at least take our foe-men  with us
as we fell. Being trussed up like a sacrificial animal, helpless to do  anything
but watch your enemy - no, not  your enemy - your tormentor's weapon descend  on
you again and again ... No being, slave or freedman, should be forced into that.
I cannot think of an enemy I hate enough to condemn to such a fate.'

'I can  think of  a few,'  Jubal murmured,  'but then,  I've never . shared your
ideals. Though we both believe in justice we seek it in different ways.'

'Justice?' the Hell Hound sneered. 'That's the second time you've used that word
tonight. I must admit it sounds strange coming from your lips.'

'Does it?' the slaver asked. 'I've always dealt fairly with my own or with those
who do business with me. We  both acknowledge the corruption in our  world. Hell
Hound. The difference is that, unlike yourself, I don't try to protect the world
- I'm hard-pressed to protect myself and my own.'

Zalbar set down his unfinished drink. 'I'll leave your mask and cloak  outside,'
he said levelly,  'I fear that  the difference is  too great for  us to enjoy  a
drink together.'

Anger flashed in the slaver's eyes. 'But you will investigate the murders?'

'I will,' the  Hell Hound promised,  'and as the  complaining citizen you'll  be
informed of the results of my investigation.'

Tempus was working on his sword when Zalbar and Razkuli approached him. They had
deliberately waited  to confront  him here  in the  barracks rather  than at his
favoured haunt,  the Lily  Garden. Despite  everything that  had or might occur,
they were all  Army and what  was to be  said should not  be heard by  civilians
outside their elite club.

Tempus favoured them with a  sullen glare, then brazenly returned  his attention
to his work. It was an unmistakable affront as he was only occupied with  filing
a series of saw-like teeth into one edge of his sword: a project that should run
a poor second to speaking with the Hell Hound's captain.

'I would have a word with you, Tempus,' Zalbar announced, swallowing his anger.

'It's your prerogative,' the other replied without looking up.

Razkuli shifted his feet, but a look from his friend stilled him.

'I have  had a  complaint entered  against you,'  Zalbar continued. 'A complaint
which has been confirmed by numerous witnesses. I felt it only fair to hear your
side of the story before I went to Kadakithis with it.'

At the  mention of  the prince's  name, Tempus  raised his  head and  ceased his
filing. 'And the nature of the complaint?' he asked darkly.

'It is said you're committing wanton murder during your off-duty hours.'

'Oh, that. It's not wanton. I only hunt hawk-masks.'

Zalbar had been prepared for many possible .responses to his accusations:  angry
denial, a  mad dash  for freedom,  a demand  for proof  or witnesses.  This easy
admission, however,  caught him  totally off-balance.  'You ...  you admit  your
guilt?' he managed at last, surprise robbing him of his composure.

'Certainly. I'm only  surprised anyone has  bothered to complain.  No one should
miss the killers I've taken ... least of all you.'

'Well, it's true I hold no love for Jubal or his sell-swords,' Zalbar  admitted,
'but, there are still due  processes of law to be  followed. If you want to  see
them brought to justice you should have...'

'Justice?' Tempus laughed. 'Justice has nothing to do with it.'

'Then why hunt them?'

'For practice,' Tempus informed them, studying his serrated sword once more. 'An
unexercised sword grows  slow. I like  to keep a  hand in whenever  possible and
supposedly the sell-swords Jubal  hires are the best  in town - though,  to tell
the truth, if the ones I've faced are any example, he's being cheated.'

'That's all?' Razkuli burst out,  unable to contain himself any  longer. 'That's
all the reason you need to disgrace your uniform?'

Zalbar held up a warning hand, but Tempus only laughed at the two of them.

'That's right, Zalbar, better keep a leash on your dog there. If you can't  stop
his yapping, I'll do it for you.'

For a moment Zalbar  thought he might have  to restrain His friend,  but Razkuli
had passed explosive rage. The swarthy Hell Hound glared at Tempus with a  deep,
glowering  hatred which  Zalbar knew  could not  be dimmed  now with  reason or
threats. Grappling with his own anger, Zalbar turned, at last, to Tempus.

'Will you be as arrogant when the  prince asks you to explain your actions?'  he
demanded.

'I won't have to.' Tempus grinned  again. 'Kitty-Cat will never call me  to task
for anything.  You got  your way  on the  Street of  Red Lanterns,  but that was
before the prince  fully comprehended my  position here. He'd  even reverse that
decision if he hadn't taken a public stance on it.'

Zalbar was frozen by anger and frustration as he realized the truth of  Tempus's
words. 'And just what is your position here?'

'If you have  to ask,' Tempus  laughed, 'I can't  explain. But you  must realize
that you can't count  on the prince to  support your charges. Save  yourselves a
lot of  grief by  accepting me  as someone  outside the  law's jurisdiction.' He
rose, sheathed his sword and started to leave, but Zalbar blocked his path.

'You may be right. You may indeed be above the law, but if there is a god -  any
god - watching over us  now, the time is not  far off when your sword  will miss
and we'll be rid of  you. Justice is a natural  process. It can't be swayed  for
long by a prince's whims.'

'Don't call  upon the  gods unless  you're ready  to accept their interference.'
Tempus grimaced. 'You'd do well to heed that warning from one who knows.'

Before Zalbar could react, Razkuli  was lunging forwards, his slim  wrist-dagger
darting for  Tempus's throat.  It was  too late  for the  Hell Hound  captain to
intervene  either physically  or verbally,  but then,  Tempus did  not seem  to
require outside help.

Moving with lazy ease, Tempus slapped his left hand over the speeding point, his
palm taking the full impact of  Razkuli's vengeance. The blade emerged from  the
back of his hand and blood spurted freely for a moment, but Tempus seemed not to
notice. A quick wrench with the  already wounded hand and the knife  was twisted
from Razkuli's grip. Then Tempus's right  hand closed like a vice on  the throat
of his dumbfounded  attacker, lifting him,  turning him, slamming  him against a
wall and pinning him there with his toes barely touching the floor.

.'Tempus!' Zalbar  barked, his  friend's danger  breaking through  the momentary
paralysis brought on by the sudden explosion of action.

'Don't worry. Captain,' Ternpus responded in  a calm voice. 'If you would  be so
kind?'

He extended  his bloody  hand towards  Zalbar and  the tall  Hell Hound gingerly
withdrew the dagger from the awful  wound. As the knife came clear  the clotting
ooze of blood erupted into a  steady stream. Tempus studied the scarlet  cascade
with distaste, then thrust his hand against Razkuli's face.

'Lick it, dog,'  he ordered. 'Lick  it clean, and  be thankful I  don't make you
lick the floor as well!'

Helpless and fighting for  each breath, the pinned  man hesitated only a  moment
before  extending his  tongue in  a feeble  effort to  comply with  the demand.
Quickly impatient, Tempus wiped his hand in a bloody smear across Razkuli's face
and mouth, then he examined his wound again.

As Zalbar watched,  horrified, the seepage  from the wound  slowed from flow  to
trickle and finally to a slow ooze - all in the matter of seconds.

Apparently satisfied with  the healing process,  Tempus turned dark  eyes to his
captain. 'Every dog gets one bite - but the next time your pet crosses me,  I'll
take him down and neither you nor the prince will be able to stop me.'

With that  he wrenched  Razkuli from  the wall  and dashed  him to  the floor at
Zalbar's feet. With both Hell Hounds held motionless by his brutality, he strode
from the room without a backward glance.

The  suddenness  and  intensity  of  the  exchange  had  shocked  even  Zalbar's
battlefield  reflexes  into  immobility, but  with  Tempus's  departure, control
flooded back into his  limbs as if he  had been released from  a spell. Kneeling
beside  his  friend, he  hoisted  Razkuli into  a  sitting position  to  aid his
laboured breathing.

'Don't try to talk,' he ordered, reaching to wipe the blood smear from Razkuli's
face, but  the gasping  man jerked  his head  back and  forth, refusing both the
order and the help.

Gathering  his legs  under him,  the short  Hell Hound  surged to  his feet  and
retained the upright position, though he  had to cling to the wall  for support.
For several moments,  his head sagged  weakly as he  drew breath in  long ragged
gasps, then he lifted his gaze to meet Zalbar's.

'I must kill him. I cannot ... live  in the same world and ... breathe the  same
air with one who ... shamed me so ... and still call myself a man.'

For a moment, Razkuli swayed as if speaking had drained him of all energy,  then
he carefully lowered himself onto a bench, propping his back against the wall.

'I must kill him,' he repeated, his voice steadying. 'Even if it means  fighting
you.'

'You won't have to fight me, my friend.' Zalbar sat beside him. 'Instead  accept
me as a partner. Tempus must be stopped,  and I fear it will take both of  us to
do it. Even then we may not be enough.'

The swarthy Hell Hound nodded in slow agreement. 'Perhaps if we acquired one  of
those hellish weapons that  have been causing so  much trouble in the  Maze?' he
suggested.

'I'd rather bed a viper. From the  reports I've heard they cause more havoc  for
the wielder than for the victim. No, the  plan I have in mind is of an  entirely
different nature.'


The bright  flowers danced  gaily in  the breeze  as Zalbar  finished his lunch.
Razkuli  was  not guarding  his  back today:  that  individual was  back  at the
barracks enjoying  a much  earned rest  after their  night's labours.  Though he
shared his  friend's fatigue,  Zalbar indulged  himself with  this last pleasure
before retiring.

'You sent for me. Hell Hound?'

Zalbar  didn't need  to turn  his head  to identify  his visitor.  He had  been
watching him from the corner of his eyes throughout his dusty approach.

'Sit  down,  Jubal,' he  instructed.  'I thought  you'd  like to  hear  about my
investigations.'

'It's about time,' the slaver grumbled, sinking to the ground. 'It's been a week
- I was starting to doubt the  seriousness of your pledge. Now, tell me  why you
couldn't find the killer.'

The Hell Hound ignored the sneer  in Jubal's voice. 'Tempus is the  killer, just
as you said,' he answered casually.

'You've confirmed it? When is he being brought to trial?'

Before Zalbar could answer a terrible scream broke the calm afternoon. The  Hell
Hound remained unmoved, but  Jubal spun towards the  sound. 'What was that?'  he
demanded.

'That,' Zalbar explained, 'is the noise  a man makes when Kurd goes  looking for
knowledge.'

'But I thought ... I swear to you, this is not my doing!'

'Don't worry about it, Jubal.' The  Hell Hound smiled and waited for  the slaver
to sit down again. 'You were asking about Tempus's trial?'

'That's right,' the black man agreed, though visibly shaken.

'He'll never come to trial.'

'Because of thatT Jubal pointed to the house. 'I can stop...'

'Will you  be quiet  and listen!  The court  will never  see Tempus  because the
prince  protects  him.  That's  why  I  hadn't  investigated  him  before   your
complaint!'

'Royal protection!' The slaver spat. 'So he's free to hunt my people still.'

'Not exactly.' Zalbar indulged in an extravagant yawn.

'But you said...'

'I said  I'd deal  with him,  and in  your words  "it's done".  Tempus won't  be
reporting for duty today ... or ever.'

Jubal  started to  ask something,  but another  scream drowned  out his  words.
Surging to his feet he glared at Kurd's house. 'I'm going to find out where that
slave came from, and when I do...'

'It came from me, and if you value your people you won't insist on his release.'

TheslaverturnedtogapeattheseatedHellHound.'Youmean...'

'Tempus,' Zalbar  nodded. 'Kurd told me of a drug he used to subdue his  slaves,
so I got some from Stulwig and put  it in my comrade's krrf. He  almost woke  up
when we branded him ...  but Kurd was willing to accept my little peace offering
with no  questions asked.   We even  cut out  his tongue  as an extra measure of
friendship.'

Another scream came - a low animal moan which lingered in the air as the two men
listened.

'I couldn't ask for a more  fitting revenge,' Jubal said at last,  extending his
hand. 'He'll be a long time dying.'

'If he dies at all,' Zalbar  commented, accepting the handshake. 'He heals  very
fast, you know.'

With that  the two  men parted  company, mindless  of the  shrieks that followed
them.



THE LIGHTER SIDE OF SANCTUARY

The reader response to the first volume of Thieves' World has been  overwhelming
and heartwarming. (For those of you who  were not aware of it: you can  write to
me or any other author in care of their publisher.) The volume of correspondence
helped to sell volumes two and three and prompted a Thieves' World wargame  soon
to be  released from  the Chaosium.  It seems  that none  of our  Thieves' World
readers  realize  that  anthologies  in  general  don't  sell  and  that fantasy
anthologies specifically are sudden death.

While the letters received have been brimming with enthusiasm and praise,  there
has been one comment/criticism which has recurred in much of the correspondence.
Specifically, people have noted that Sanctuary is incredibly grim. It seems that
the citizens of the town never laugh,  or when they do it is forcefully  stifled
... like  the time  Kitty-Cat spilled  wine down  the front  of his  tunic while
trying to toast the health of his brother, the emperor.

This is a valid gripe. First of  all because no town is totally dismal.  Second,
because those  readers familiar  with my  other works  are accustomed to finding
some humour buried in  the pages - even  in a genocidal war  between lizards and
bugs.  What's  worse, in  reviewing  the stories  in  this second  volume,  I am
painfully aware that the downward spiral of Sanctuary has continued rather  than
reversing itself.

As such I have taken it upon myself as editor to provide the reader with a brief
glimpse of the bright side of the  town - the benefits and advantages of  living
in the worst hellhole in the Empire.

To this end let us  turn to a seldom seen,  never quoted document issued by  the
Sanctuary Chamber of Commerce shortly  before it went out of  business. The.fact
that Kitty-Cat  insisted the  brochure contain  some modicum  of truth doubtless
contributed to the document's lack  of success. Nonetheless, for your  enjoyment
and edification, here are selected excerpts from

SANCTUARY VACATION CAPITAL OF THE RANKAN EMPIRE

Every year  tourists flock  to Sanctuary  by the  tens, drawn  by the rumours of
adventure and excitement which flourish in every dark corner of the Empire. They
are never disappointed  that they chose  Sanctuary. Our city  iseverything it is
rumoured to  be -  and more!  Many visitors  never leave  and those  that do can
testily that the  lives to which  they return seem  dull in comparison  with the
heartstopping action they found in this personable town.

If you, as a merchant, are looking to expand or relocate your business  consider
scenic Sanctuary. Where else can you find all these features in one locale?

BUSINESS OPPORTUNITIES

Property  -  Land in  Sanctuary  is cheap!  Whether  you want  to  build in  the
swamplands to the  east of town,  or west in  the desert fringes,  you'll , find
large parcels of  land available at  temptingly low prices.  If you seek  a more
central location for your business, just ask. Most shop owners in Sanctuary  are
willing to surrender their building, stock and staff for the price of a  one-way
passage out of town.

Labour - There is no shortage of willing workers in Sanctuary. You'll find  most
citizens are for hire and will do  anything for a price. Moreover, the array  of
talents  and  skills  available  in our  city  is  nothing  short of  startling.
Abilities  you never  thought were  marketable are  bought and  sold freely  in
Sanctuary - and the price is always right!

For  those who  prefer slave  labour, the  selection available  in Sanctuary  is
diverse and plentiful. You'll  be as surprised as  the slaves themselves are  by
who shows up on the auction  block. There, as everywhere in Sanctuary,  bargains
abound for one with a sharp eye ... or sword.

Materials-l{ the remoteness  of the town's  location makes you  hesitate - never
fear. Anything of value in the Empire is sold in Sanctuary. In fact, commodities
you may have been told were not for sale often appear in the stalls and shops of
this amazing town.  Don't bother asking  the seller how  he got his  stock. Just
rest assured that in Sanctuary no one will ask how you came by yours, either.

LIFESTYLES

Social Life - As the ancients say, one does not live by bread alone.

Similarly, a  citizen of  the Rankan  Empire requires  an active  social life to
balance his  business activity.  Here is  where Sanctuary  truly excels.  It has
often  been said  that day  to day  life in  Sanctuary is  an adventure  without
parallel.

Religions - For those with an eye for the after-life, the religious offerings in
a  given  area must  withstand  close scrutiny.  Well,  our town  welcomes  such
scrutinizers  with open  arms. Every  Rankan deity  and cult  is represented  in
Sanctuary, as well many not in  open evidence elsewhere in the Empire.  Old gods
and forgotten rites exist and  flourish alongside the more accepted  traditions,
adding to the town's quaint charm. Nor are our temples reserved for devout  true
-believers only. Most shrines welcome visitors of other beliefs and many  allow 
- nay, require - audience participation in their curious native rituals.

Night Life - Unlike many cities in  the Empire which roll up their streets  with
the setting sun, Sanctuary comes to life at night. In fact, many of its citizens
exist for the night life  to a point where you  seldom see them by the  light of
day. However conservative or jaded your taste in entertainment might be,  you'll
have the  time of  your life  in the  shadows of  Sanctuary. Our  Street of  Red
Lanterns alone offers a wide array of amusements, from the quiet elegance of the
Ambrosia House to the more bizarre pleasures available at the House of Whips. If
slumming is your pleasure, you need look no further than your own doorstep.

Social Status -  Let's face it:  everybody likes to  feel superior to  somebody.
Well, nowhere is superiority as easy to come by as it is in Sanctuary. A  Rankan
citizen of moderate means is a  wealthy man by Sanctuary standards, and  will be
treated as such by  its inhabitants. Envious eyes  will follow your passing  and
people will note your movements and customs with flattering attentiveness.  Even
if your funds are less  than adequate in your own  opinion, it is still easy  to
feel that you are better off than the average citizen of Sanctuary - if only  on
a moral  scale. We  can guarantee,  without reservation,  that however  low your
opinion of yourself might  be, there will be  somebody in Sanctuary you  will be
superior to.

A Word About Crime - You have  probably heard rumours of the high crime  rate in
Sanctuary. We admit to having had our problems in the past, but that's behind us
now. One  need only  look at  the huge  crowds that  gather to  watch the  daily
hangings and impalements to realize that the citizens of Sanctuary's support for
law and order  is at an  all-time high. As  a result of  the new Governor's anti
-crime programme, we are pleased to announce that last year the rate of reported
crime, per day, in Sanctuary was not greater than that of cities twice our size.

IN SUMMARY

Sanctuary is a place of opportunity  for a far-thinking opportunist. Now is  the
time to move. Now, while property values are plummeting and the economy and  the
people are depressed. Where better to invest your money, your energies and  your
life than in  this rapidly growing  city of the  future? Even our  worst critics
acknowledge the potential  of Sanctuary when  they describe it  as a 'town  with
nowhere to go but up!'