D:\e-books\Thieves World 03 - Shadows of Sanctuary.pdb

PDB Name: Thieves World 3
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 #3
Shadow Of Sanctuary

Edited by Robert Lynn Asprin



CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION				Robert Asprin

LOOKING FOR SATAN 			Vonda N. Mclntyre
ISCHADE 				C.J.Cherryh 
A GIFT IN PARTING 			Robert Asprin 
THE VIVISECTIONIST 			Andrew Offutt
THE RHINOCEROS AND THE UNICORN 		Diana L. Paxson
THEN AZYUNA DANCED 			Lynn Abbey 
A MAN AND HIS GOD 			Janet Morris

ESSAY: THINGS THE EDITOR NEVER TOLD ME 	Lynn Abbey



INTRODUCTION

by Robert Asprin

It was a slow night at the Vulgar Unicorn. Not slow in the sense that there  had
been  no fights  (there hadn't)  or that  there weren't  many customers   (there
weren't) but rather a different kind of slow; the slow measured pace of a man on
his way to  the gallows, for  the Unicorn was  dying, as was  the entire town of
Sanctuary.  More people  were leaving  every day  and those  left were  becoming
increasingly desperate and vicious as the economy dipped to new lows.

Desperate  people  were dangerous;  they  were quick  to  turn predator  at  the
smallest imagined opportunity,  which in turn  made them vulnerable  to the real
predators drawn to the town like wolves  to a sick animal. Anyone with an  ounce
of sense and a good leg to hobble on would have deserted Sanctuary long ago.

Such were the thoughts of Hakiem, the Storyteller, as he sat brooding over a cup
of cheap wine. Tonight he did not even bother adopting his usual guise of dozing
drunkenly while eavesdropping  on conversations at  the neighbouring tables.  He
knew all the patrons present and not one of them was worth spying on - hence  no
need to fake disinterest.

He would leave Sanctuary tomorrow. He would go somewhere, anywhere, where people
were  freer with  their money  and a  master storyteller  would be  appreciated.
Hakiem smiled bitterly at himself even as  he made the resolution - for he  knew
it to be a lie.

He loved this bedraggled town as he loved the tough breed of people it  spawned.
There was a raw, stubborn vitality that surged and ebbed just below the surface.
Sanctuary was a storyteller's paradise. When  he left, if he ever did,  he would
have stories enough for a lifetime ... no, two lifetimes. Big stories and little
ones, tailored to the buyer's purse. Stories of violent battle between  warriors
and between  sorcerers. Tiny  stories of  people so  common they  would move the
hearts of any who  listened. From the  princely military-governor with  his Hell
Hound elite guard to the humblest thief, they were all grist for Hakiem's  mill.
If he had personally commanded their performances they could not have  performed
their roles better.

The storyteller's smile was more sincere  as he raised his cup for  another sip.
Then his eye was caught  by a figure lurching through  the door and he froze  in
mid-movement.

One-Thumb!

The Vulgar  Unicorn's owner  had been  absent for  some time,  causing no  small
question among the patrons about his fate.  Now, here he was, large as life  ...
well, not quite as large as life.

Hakiem watched with narrowed eyes as One-Thumb slumped against the bar,  seizing
a crock of wine  while his normally practised  fingers fumbled with the  stopper
like a youth with his first  woman. Unable to contain his curiosity  longer, the
old storyteller  untangled himself  from his  chair and  scuttled forward with a
speed that belied his age.

'One-Thumb,' he cackled with calculated joviality, 'welcome back!'

The  massive  figure  straightened  and  turned,  focusing  vacant  eyes  on the
intruder. 'Hakiem!' The fleshy face suddenly wrinkled with a wide smile. 'By the
gods - the world is normal.'

To the storyteller's  amazement, One-Thumb seemed  on the verge  of tears as  he
stepped forward,  arms extended  to embrace  the old  man like  a long-lost son.
Recoiling, Hakiem hastily interposed his wine cup between them.

'You've been gone a long time,'  he said, abandoning all semblance of  subtlety.
'Where have you been?'

'Gone?' The eyes were vacant again. 'Yes, I've been gone. How long has it been?'

'Over a year.' The storyteller was puzzled, and insatiable.

'A year,' One-Thumb murmured. 'It seems  like ... the tunnels! I've been  in the
tunnels. It  was...' He  paused to  take a  long swallow  of wine, then absently
filled Hakiem's cup as he launched into his story.

Accustomed to  piecing together  tales from  half-heard words  and phrases,  the
storyteller rapidly grasped the essence of One-Thumb's ordeal.

He  had been  trapped by  a magician's  spell in  the tangle  of tunnels   below
Sanctuary's streets. Confronted  by an image  of himself, he  had killed it  and
been slain in turn - over and  over until this night when he miraculously  found
himself alone and unscathed.

As One-Thumb redoubled his lurid description, describing the feel of cold  metal
as it found  its home in  one's innards -  again and again,  Hakiem pondered the
facts of the story. It fitted.

Lately  someone had  been stalking  wizards, slaying  them in  their own   beds.
Apparently the hunter's knife had  struck down the spell-weaver who  was holding
One-Thumb  in  painful thrall,  freeing  him suddenly  to  his normal  life.  An
interesting story, but totally useless to Hakiem.

First: One-Thumb was  obviously willing to  spill the tale  to anyone who  would
stand  still  long  enough  to  listen,  ruining  the  market  for   second-hand
renditions. Second,  and more  important: it  was a  bad story.  Its motive  was
unclear; the ending hazy and  inactive;  there was  no  real  interplay  between
the characters.  The  only real  meat  was the uniqueness of One-Thumb's ability
to tell the tale in the first person and  even that weakened through repetition.
In short, it was boring.

It didn't take a master storyteller to reach this conclusion. It was obvious. In
fact, Hakiem was already growing weary listening to the whine and prattle.

'You must be tired,' he interrupted. 'It's wrong of me to keep you. Maybe we can
talk again after you've rested.' He turned to leave the Unicorn.

'What about the wine?' One-Thumb called angrily. 'You haven't paid yet.'

Hakiem's response was habitual: 'Pay? I  didn't order it. It was you  who filled
the cup. Pay for it  yourself.' He regretted the words  immediately. One-Thumb's
treatment of drinkers who refused to  pay was legendary throughout the Maze.  To
his surprise, then, it was One-Thumb who gave ground.

'Well, all right,' the big man grumbled. 'Just don't make a habit of it.'

The old storyteller felt a rare twinge of remorse as he left the Unicorn.  While
he had no love for One-Thumb, neither had he any reason to wish him ill.

The big man hadn't just lost a year of his life - he'd lost his fire - that core
of ferocity which had  earned him the respect  of the town's underworld.  Though
One-Thumb was unmarked  physically, he was  only the empty  shell of his  former
self. This town was no place for a man without the strength to back his bluster.

The end of One-Thumb's story was in  sight - and it wouldn't be pleasant.  Maybe
with a few revisions the story - if not the man - had a future.

Lost in his thoughts, Hakiem faded once more into the shadows of Sanctuary.



LOOKING FOR SATAN

by Vonda N. Mclntyre

The four travellers left the mountains at  the end of the day, tired, cold,  and
hungry, and they entered Sanctuary.

The inhabitants of the city observed  them and laughed, but they laughed  behind
their sleeves or after the small group passed. All its members walked armed. Yet
there was no belligerence in them. They looked around amazed, nudged each other,
and pointed at things, for all the world as if none had ever seen a city before.
As, indeed, they had not.

Unaware of the amusement of the townspeople, they passed through the marketplace
towards the city proper. The light was fading; The farmers culled their  produce
and took down their awnings. Limp  cabbage leaves and rotten fruit littered  the
roughly cobbled street, and bits  of unrecognizable stuff floated down  the open
central sewer.

Beside Wess, Chan shifted his heavy pack.

'Let's stop and buy something to eat,' he said, 'before everybody goes home.'

Wess hitched her own pack higher on her shoulders and did not stop. 'Not  here,'
she said. 'I'm tired  of stale flatbread and  raw vegetables. I want  a hot meal
tonight.'

She tramped on. She  knew how Chan felt.  She glanced back at  Aerie, who walked
wrapped in her long dark cloak. Her  pack weighed her down. She was taller  than
Wess, as tall as Chan, but very  thin. Worry and their journey had deepened  her
eyes. Wess was  not used to  seeing her like  this. She was  used to seeing  her
freer.

'Our tireless Wess,' Chan said. 'I'm tired, too!' Wess said. 'Do you want to try
camping in the street again?'

'No,' he said. Behind him. Quartz chuckled.

In the first village they had ever seen - it seemed years ago now, but was  only
two months - they tried to set up camp in what they thought was a vacant  field.
It was the village common. Had  the village possessed a prison, they  would have
been thrown  into it.  As it  was they  were escorted  to the  edge of  town and
invited never to return. Another traveller explained inns to them - and  prisons
- and now they all could laugh, with some embarrassment at the episode.

But the smaller towns they had passed through did not even approach Sanctuary in
size and noise and crowds. Wess had  never imagined so many people or such  high
buildings  or any  odour so  awful. She  hoped it  would be  better beyond   the
marketplace. Passing a fish stall, she  held her breath and hurried. It  was the
end of the day, true, but the end  of a cool late fall's day. Wess tried  not to
wonder what it would smell like at the end of a long summer's day.

'We should stop at the first inn we find,' Quartz said.

'All right,' Wess said.

By the time they reached the street's end, darkness was complete and the  market
was deserted. Wess thought it odd that everyone should disappear so quickly, but
no doubt they were tired  too and wanted to get  home to a hot fire  and dinner.
She felt a sudden stab of  homesickness and hopelessness: their search had  gone
on so long, with so little chance of success.

The  buildings closed  in around  them as  the street  narrowed suddenly.   Wess
stopped: three  paths faced  them, and  another branched  off only  twenty paces
farther on.

'Where now, my friends?'

'We must ask someone,' Aerie said, her voice soft with fatigue.

'If we can find anyone,' Chan said doubtfully.

Aerie stepped towards a shadow-filled corner.

'Citizen,' she said, 'would you direct us to the nearest inn?'

The  others peered  more closely  at the  dim niche.  Indeed, a  muffled  figure
crouched there. It stood up. Wess could  see the manic glitter of its eyes,  but
nothing more.

'An inn?'

'The closest, if you please. We've travelled a long way.'

The figure chuckled. 'You'll find no  inns in this part of town,  foreigner. But
the tavern around the corner - it has rooms upstairs. Perhaps it will suit you.'

'Thank you.' Aerie  turned back,.a faint  breeze ruffling her  short black hair.
She pulled her cloak closer.

They went the way the figure gestured,  and did not see it convulse with  silent
laughter behind them.

In front  of the  tavern, Wess  puzzled out  the unfamiliar  script: the  Vulgar
Unicorn. An odd combination, even in  the south where odd combinations were  the
style of naming taverns. She pushed open the door. It was nearly as dark  inside
as out, and smoky. The noise died as Wess and Chan entered - then rose again  in
a surprised buzz when Aerie and Quartz followed.

Wess and Chan were  not startlingly different from  the general run of  southern
mountain folk: he fairer, she darker.  Wess could pass unnoticed as an  ordinary
citizen  anywhere; Chan's  beauty often  attracted attention.  But Aerie's  tall
white-skinned  black-haired elegance  everywhere aroused  comment. Wess  smiled,
imagining what would happen if Aerie flung away her cloak and showed herself  as
she really was.

And Quartz: she had to stoop to come inside. She straightened up. She was taller
than anyone else in the room. The smoke near the ceiling swirled a wreath around
her hair. She had cut it short  for the journey, and it curled around  her face,
red, gold, and  sand-pale. Her grey  eyes reflected the  firelight like mirrors.
Ignoring the stares, she pushed her blue wool cloak from her broad shoulders and
shrugged her pack to the floor.

The strong heavy scent  of beer and sizzling  meat made Wess's mouth  water. She
sought out the man behind the bar.

'Citizen,' she said,  carefully pronouncing  the Sanctuary  language, the  trade
tongue of all the continent, 'are you the proprietor? My friends and I, we  need
a room for the night, and dinner.'

Her request seemed ordinary enough to her, but the innkeeper looked sidelong  at
one of his patrons. Both laughed.

'A room, young gentleman?' He came out from behind the bar. Instead of  replying
to Wess, he spoke to Chan. Wess smiled to herself. Like all Chan's friends,  she
was used to seeing people fall in love with him on sight. She would have done so
herself, she thought, had she first met  him when they were grown. But they  had
known each other all their lives and their friendship was far closer and  deeper
than instant lust.

'A room?' the innkeeper said again. 'A meal for you and your ladies? Is that all
we can do for  you here in our  humble establishment? Do you  require dancing? A
juggler? Harpists  and hautbois?  Ask and  it shall  be given!'  Far from  being
seductive, or even friendly, the innkeeper's tone was derisive.

Chan glanced at Wess, frowning  slightly, as everyone within earshot  burst into
laughter. Wess  was glad  her complexion  was dark  enough to  hide her blush of
anger. Chan was bright pink from the  collar of his homespun shirt to the  roots
of his blond hair. Wess knew they  had been insulted but she did not  understand
how or why, so she replied with courtesy.

'No, citizen, thank you for your hospitality.  We need a room, if you have  one,
and food.'

'We would not refuse a bath,' Quartz said.

The innkeeper glanced at  them, an irritated expression  on his face, and  spoke
once more to Chan.

'The young gentleman lets his ladies speak for him? Is this some foreign custom,
that you are too high-bred to speak to a mere tavern-keeper?'

'I don't understand you,'  Chan said. 'Wess spoke  for us all. Must  we speak in
chorus?'

Taken aback, the man hid his reaction by showing them, with an exaggerated  bow,
to a table.

Wess dumped her pack on the floor next to the wall behind her and sat down  with
a sigh of relief. The others followed. Aerie

looked as if she could not have kept on her feet a moment longer.

'This is a simple place,' the  tavern-keeper said. 'Beer or ale, wine.  Meat and
bread. Can you pay?'

He was speaking  to Chan again.  He took no  direct note of  Wess " or  Aerie or
Quartz.

'What is the price?'

'Four dinners, bed - you break your  fast somewhere else, I don't open early.  A
piece of silver. In advance.'

'The bath included?' Quartz said.

'Yes, yes, all right.'

'We can pay,' said Quartz, whose turn  it was to keep track of what  they spent.
She offered him a piece of silver.

He continued to look at Chan,  but after an awkward pause he  shrugged, snatched
the coin from Quartz,  and turned away. Quartz  drew back her hand,  then, under
the table, surreptitiously wiped it on the leg other heavy cotton trousers.

Chan glanced over at Wess. 'Do  you understand anything that has happened  since
we entered the city's gates?'

'It is curious,' she said. 'They have strange customs.'

'We can puzzle them out tomorrow,' Aerie said.

A young  woman carrying  a tray  stopped at  their table.  She wore odd clothes,
summer clothes by the  look of them, for  they uncovered her arms  and shoulders
and almost completely bared her breasts. It is hot in here, Wess thought. That's
quite intelligent of her. Then she need only put on a cloak to go home, and  she
will not get chilled or overheated.

'Ale for you, sir?' the  young woman said to Chan.  'Or wine? And wine for  your
wives?'

'Beer, please,' Chan said. 'What are "wives"? I have studied your language,  but
this is not a word I know.'

'The ladies are not your wives?'

Wess took a tankard of ale off the tray, too tired and thirsty to try to  figure
out what the woman was talking about. She took a deep swallow of the cool bitter
brew. Quartz reached for  a flask of wine  and two cups, and  poured for herself
and Aerie.

'My companions are Westerly, Aerie, and  Quartz,' Chan said, nodding to each  in
turn. 'I am Chandler. And you are -?'

'I'm just the serving girl,' she said, sounding frightened. 'You could not  wish
to be troubled with my name.' She grabbed a mug of beer and put it on the table,
spilling some, and fled.

They all looked at each other, but then the tavern-keeper came with platters  of
meat. They were too hungry to wonder what they had done to frighten the barmaid.

Wess tore off  a mouthful of  bread. It was  fairly fresh, and  a welcome change
from trail rations - dry meat, flatbread mixed hurriedly and baked on stones  in
the coals of a campfire, fruit when  they could find or buy it. Still,  Wess was
used to better.

'I miss your bread,' she said to Quartz in their own language. Quartz smiled.

The meat  was hot  and untainted  by decay.  Even Aerie  ate with some appetite,
though she preferred meat raw.

Halfway through  her meal,  Wess slowed  down and  took a  moment to observe the
tavern more carefully.

At the bar, a group suddenly burst into raucous laughter.

'You say  the same  damned thing  every damned  time you  turn up  in Sanctuary,
Bauchle,' one of them said, his loud  voice full of mockery. 'You have a  secret
or a scheme or a marvel that will make your fortune. Why don't you get an honest
job - like the rest of us?'

That brought on more laughter, even  from the large, heavyset young man  who was
being made fun of.

'You'll see, this time,' he said.  'This time I've got something that  will take
me all the way to the court  of the Emperor. When you hear the  criers tomorrow,
you'll know.' He called  for more wine. His  friends drank and made  more jokes,
both at his expense.

The Unicorn  was much  more crowded  now, smokier,  louder. Occasionally someone
glanced towards Wess and her friends, but otherwise they were let alone.

A cold breeze thinned the odour  of beer and sizzling meat and  unwashed bodies.
Silence fell suddenly, and Wess looked quickly around to see if she had breached
some other unknown custom.

But all the attention focused on the tavern's entrance. The cloaked figure stood
there casually,  but  nothing  was casual  about  the  aura of  power  and  self
possession.

In the whole of the tavern, not another table held an empty place.

'Sit with us, sister!' Wess called on impulse.

Two long steps  and a shove:  Wess's chair scraped  roughly along the  floor and
Wess was rammed back against the wall, a dagger at her throat.

'Who calls me "sister"?' The dark hood fell back from long, grey-streaked  hair.
A blue star blazed on the  woman's forehead. Her elegant features grew  terrible
and dangerous in its light.

Wess stared  up into  the tall,  lithe woman's  furious eyes.  Her jugular  vein
pulsed against the point of the blade. If she made a move towards her knife,  or
if any other friends moved at all, she was dead.

'I meant no disrespect  -' She almost said  'sister' again. But it.  was not the
familiarity that  had caused  offence: it  was the  word itself.  The woman  was
travelling incognito, and Wess had breached her disguise. No mere apology  would
repair the damage she had done.

A drop of sweat trickled  down the side of her  face. Chan and Aerie and  Quartz
were all  poised on  the edge  of defence.  If Wess  erred again,  more than one
person would die before the fighting stopped.

'My unfamiliarity with  your language has  offended you, young  gentleman,' Wess
said, hoping the tavern-keeper had used a civil form of address, if not a  civil
tone. It was often safe to insult  someone by the tone, but seldom by  the words
themselves. 'Young gentleman,' she said again  when the woman did not kill  her,
'someone has made sport of me by translating "frejojan", "sister".'

'Perhaps,' the disguised woman said. 'What does frejojan mean?'

'It is  a term  of peace,  an offer  of friendship,  a word  to welcome a guest,
another child of one's own parents.'

'Ah. "Brother" is the  word you want, the  word to speak to  men. To call a  man
"sister", the word for women, is an insult.'

'An insult!' Wess said, honestly surprised.

But the knife drew back from her throat.

'You are a barbarian,' the disguised  woman said, in a friendly tone.  'I cannot
be insulted by a barbarian.'

'There is the problem, you see,'  Chan said. 'Translation. In our language,  the
word for outsider,  for foreigner, also  translates as "barbarian".'  He smiled,
his beautiful smile.

Wess pulled  her chair  forward again.  She reached  for Chan's  hand under  the
table. He squeezed her fingers gently.

'I meant only to offer you a place to sit, where there is no other.'

The stranger sheathed her dagger and stared down into Wess's eyes. Wess shivered
slightly and imagined spending the night with Chan on one side, the stranger  on
the other.

Or you could have the centre, if you liked, she thought, holding the gaze.

The stranger  laughed. Wess  could not  tell if  the mocking  tone were directed
outward or inward.

'Then I will  sit here, as  there is no  other place.' She  did so. 'My  name is
Lythande.'

They  introduced  themselves, and  offered  her -  Wess  made herself  think  of
Lythande as 'him' so she would not damage the disguise again - offered him wine.

'I cannot accept your  wine,' Lythande said. 'But  to show I mean  no offence, I
will  smoke  with  you.'  He  rolled shredded  herbs  in  a  dry  leaf, lit  the
construction, inhaled from it, and held it out. 'Westerly, frejojan.'

Out of politeness Wess tried it. By the time she stopped coughing her throat was
sore, and the sweet scent made her feel lightheaded.

'It takes practice,' Lythande said, smiling.

Chan and Quartz did no better,  but Aerie inhaled deeply, her eyes  closed, then
held her breath. Thereafter she and Lythande shared it while the others  ordered
more ale and another flask of wine.

'Why did you ask me, of all this crowd, to sit here?' Lythande asked.

'Because...' Wess paused to  try to think of  a way to make  her intuition sound
sensible.  'You look  like someone  who knows  what's going  on. You  look  like
someone who might help us.'

'If information is all you need, you can get it less expensively than by  hiring
a sorcerer.'

'Are you a sorcerer?' Wess asked.

Lythande looked at her with pity  and contempt. 'You child! What do  your people
mean, sending innocents and children out  of the north!' He touched the  star on
his forehead. 'What did you think this means?'

'I'll have to guess, but I guess it means you are a mage.'

'Excellent. A few years of lessons like that and you might survive, a while,  in
Sanctuary - in the Maze - in the Unicorn!'

'We haven't got years,' Aerie  whispered. 'We have, perhaps, overspent  the time
we do have.'

Quartz put her arm around Aerie's shoulders, for comfort, and hugged her gently.

'You interest me,' Lythande said. 'Tell me what information you seek. Perhaps  I
will know whether  you can obtain  it less expensively  - not cheaply,  but less
expensively  -  from  Jubal  the  Slavemonger,  or  from  a  seer  -'  At  their
expressions, he stopped.

'Slavemonger!'

'He collects information as well. You  needn't worry that he'll abduct you  from
his sitting-room.'

They all started speaking at once, then fell silent, realizing the futility.

'Start at the beginning.'

'We're looking for someone,' Wess said.

'This is a poor place to search. No one will tell you anything about any  patron
of this establishment.'

'But he's a friend.'

'There's only your word for that.'

'Satan wouldn't be here anyway,' Wess said.  'If he were free to come here  he'd
be free to go home. We'd have heard something of him, or he would have found us,
or -'

'You fear he was taken prisoner. Enslaved perhaps.'

'He must have been. He was hunting, alone. He liked to do that, his people often
do.'

'We need solitude sometimes,' Aerie said.

Wess nodded. 'We didn't  worry about him till  he didn't come home  for Equinox.
Then we searched. We found his camp, and a cold trail...'

'We tried to hope for kidnapping,'  Chan said. 'But there was no  ransom demand.
The trail was so old - they took him away.'

'We followed,  and we  heard some  rumours of  him,' Aerie  said. 'But  the road
branched, and we  had to choose  which way to  go." She shrugged,  but could not
maintain  the  careless pose;  she  turned away  in  despair. 'I  could  find no
trace...'

Aerie, with  her longer  range, had  met them  after searching  all day  at each
evening's new camp, ever more exhausted and more driven.

'Apparently we chose wrong,' Quartz said.

'Children,' Lythande said, 'children, frejohans -'

'Frejojani,'' Chan said automatically, then shook his head and spread his  hands
in apology.

'Your friend is one slave  out of many. You could  not trace him by his  papers,
unless you discovered what name they were forged under. For someone to recognize
him by a description would be the greatest luck, even if you had an homuncule to
show. Sisters, brother, you might not recognize him yourselves, by now.'

'I would recognize him,' Aerie said.

'We'd all recognize him, even  in a crowd of his  own people. But that makes  no
difference. Anyone would know him who had seen him. But no one has seen him,  or
if  they  have  they   will  not  say  so   to  us.'  Wess  glanced   at  Aerie.

'You see,' Aerie said, 'he is winged.'

'Winged!' Lythande said.

'Winged folk are rare, I believe, in the south.'

'Winged folk are myths, in the south. Winged? Surely you mean...'

Aerie  started  to shrug  back  her cape,  but  Quartz put  her  arm around  her
shoulders again. Wess broke into the conversation quickly.

'The bones are longer,' she said,  touching the three outer fingers of  her left
hand with  the forefinger  of her  right. 'And  stronger. The  webs between fold
out.'

'And these people fly?'

'Of course. Why else have wings?'

Wess glanced at Chan, who nodded and reached for his pack.

'We have no homuncule,' Wess said. 'But  we have a picture. It isn't Satan,  but
it's very like him.'

Chan pulled out  the wooden tube  he had carried  all the way  from Kaimas. From
inside it, he drew the rolled kidskin, which he opened out on to the table.  The
hide was  carefully tanned  and very  thin; it  had writing  on one  side and  a
painting, with one word underneath it, on the other.

'It's from the library at Kaimas,' Chan said. 'No one knows where it came  from.
I believe it is quite old, and I think it is from a book, but this is all that's
left.' He showed Lythande the written  side. 'I can decipher the script  but not
the language. Can you read it?'

Lythande shook his head. 'It is unknown to me.'

Disappointed, Chan turned  the illustrated side  of the manuscript  page towards
Lythande.  Wess  leaned towards  it  too, picking  out  the details  in  the dim
candlelight. It  was beautiful,  almost as  beautiful as  Satan himself.  It was
surprising how  like Satan  it was,  for it  had been  in the library since long
before he was born.  The slender and powerful  winged man had red-gold  hair and
flame-coloured wings. His expression seemed composed half of wisdom and half  of
deep despair.

Most flying people were  black or deep iridescent  green or pure dark  blue. But
Satan,  like  the painting,  was  the colour  of  fire. Wess  explained  that to
Lythande.

'We suppose this word to be this person's name,' Chan said.

'We cannot be sure we have the pronunciation right, but Satan's mother liked the
sound as we say it, so she gave it to him as his name, too.'

Lythande stared at  the gold and  scarlet painting in  silence for a  long time,
then shook  his head  and leaned  back in  his chair.  He blew smoke towards the
ceiling. The ring spun, and sparked, and finally dissipated into the haze.

'Frejojani,' Lythande said, 'Jubal -  and the other slavemongers -  parade their
merchandise through the town  before every auction. If  your friend were in  the
coffle, everyone in Sanctuary would know. Everyone in the Empire would know.'

Beneath the edges of her cape. Aerie clenched her hands into fists.

Chan slowly, carefully, blankly, rolled up the painting and stored it away.

This was, Wess feared, the end of their journey.

'But it might be...'

Aerie looked up sharply, narrowing her deep-set eyes.

'Such an unusual being would not be sold at public auction. He would be  offered
in private sale, or  exhibited, or perhaps even  offered to the Emperor  for his
menagerie.'

Aerie flinched, and Quartz traced the texture of her short-sword's bone haft.

'It's better, children, don't you see? He'll be treated decently. He's valuable.
Ordinary slaves are whipped and cut and broken to obedience.'

Chan's transparent complexion paled to white. Wess shuddered. Even contemplating
slavery they had none of them understood what it meant.

'But how will we find him? Where will we look?'

'Jubal will know,' Lythande said, 'if  anyone does. I like you, children.  Sleep
tonight. Perhaps tomorrow Jubal will speak with you.' He got up, passed smoothly
through the crowd, and vanished into the darkness outside.

In silence  with her  friends, Wess  sat thinking  about what  Lythande had told
them.

A well-set-up young fellow crossed the room and leaned over their table  towards
Chan. Wess recognized him as the man  who had earlier been made sport of  by his
friends.

'Good evening, traveller,' he said to  Chan. 'I have been told these  ladies are
not your wives.'

'It seems everyone in this room has  asked if my companions are my wives,  and I
still do not understand what you are asking,' Chan said pleasantly.

'What's so hard to understand?'

'What does "wives" mean?'

The man arched one  eyebrow, but replied, 'Women  bonded to you by  law. To give
their favours to no one but you. To bear and raise your sons.'

'"Favours"?'

'Sex, you clapperdudgeon! Fucking! Do you understand me?'

'Not entirely. It sounds like a very odd system to me.'

Wess thought it odd,  too. It seemed absurd  to decide to bear  children of only
one gender; and  bonded by law  sounded suspiciously like  slavery. But -  three
women pledged solely to one man? She glanced across at Aerie and Quartz and  saw
they were thinking the same thing. They burst out laughing.

'Chan, Chan-love, think how exhausted you'd be!' Wess said.

Chan  grinned. They  often slept  and made  love all  together, but  he was  not
expected to satisfy all his friends. Wess enjoyed making love with Chan, but she
was equally excited by Aerie's delicate ferocity, and by Quartz's  inexhaustible
gentleness and power.

'They're not your  wives, then,' the  man said. 'So  how much for  that one?' He
pointed at Quartz.

They all waited curiously for him to explain.

'Come on, man! Don't be coy! You're obvious to everyone -why else bring women to
the Unicorn? With that one, you'll get away with it till the madams find out. So
make your fortune while you can. What's her price? I can pay, I assure you.'

Chan started to speak, but Quartz gestured sharply and he fell silent.

'Tell me if I  interpret you correctly,' she  said. 'You think coupling  with me
would be enjoyable. You would like to share my bed tonight.'

'That's right, lovey.' He reached for her breast but abruptly thought better  of
it.

'Yet you speak, not to me, but  to my friend. This seems very awkward,  and very
rude.'

'You'd better get used to it, woman. It's the way we do things here.'

'You offer Chan money, to persuade me to couple with you.'

The man looked at Chan. 'You'd best train your whores to manners yourself,  boy,
or your customers will help you and damage your merchandise.'

Chan blushed scarlet, embarrassed, flustered, and confused. Wess began to  think
she knew what was going on, but she did not want to believe it.

'You are speaking to me, man,' Quartz said, using the word with as much contempt
as he had put into 'woman'. 'I have  but one more question for you. You are  not
ill-favoured, yet you cannot get someone to bed you for the joy of it. Does this
mean you are diseased?'

With an incoherent sound  of rage, he reached  for his knife. Before  he touched
it. Quartz's short-sword rasped out of its scabbard. She held its tip just above
his belt-buckle. The death she offered him was slow and painful.

Everyone in the tavern watched intently as the man slowly spread his hands.

'Go away,' Quartz said. 'Do not speak to me again. You are not unattractive, but
if you are not diseased you are a fool, and I do not sleep with fools.'

She moved  her sword  a handsbreadth.  He backed  up three  fast steps  and spun
around, glancing spasmodically  from one face  to another, to  another. He found
only amusement. He bolted, through a  roar of laughter, fighting his way  to the
door.

The tavern-keeper sauntered over. 'Foreigners,'  he said, 'I don't know  whether
you've made your place or dug your graves tonight,

but that  was the  best laugh  I've had  since the  new moon. Bauchle Meyne will
never live it down.'

'I did not think  it funny in  the least,' Quartz  said. She sheathed  her short
sword. She had not even touched her broadsword. Wess had never seen her draw it.
'And I am tired. Where is our room?'

He led  them up  the stairs.  The room  was small  and low-ceilinged.  After the
tavern-keeper  left, Wess  poked the  straw mattress  of one  of the  beds,  and
wrinkled her nose.

'I've got this far from home without  getting lice, I'm not going to sleep  in a
nest of bedbugs.' She threw her bedroll to the floor. Chan shrugged and  dropped
his gear.

Quartz flung her pack into the comer. 'I'll have something to say to Satan  when
we find  him,' she  said angrily.  'Stupid fool,  to let  himself be captured by
these creatures.'

Aerie stood hunched in her cloak. 'This is a wretched place,' she said. 'You can
flee, but he cannot.'

'Aerie,  love, I  know,.I'm sorry.'  Quartz hugged  her, stroking  her hair.  'I
didn't mean it, about Satan. I was angry.'

Aerie nodded.

Wess rubbed Aerie's  shoulders, unfastened the  clasp of her  long hooded cloak,
and drew it  from Aerie's body.  Candlelight rippled across  the black fur  that
covered her, as sleek and glossy as sealskin. She wore nothing but a short  thin
blue silk tunic and her walking boots. She kicked off the boots, dug her  clawed
toes into the splintery floor, and stretched.

Her outer fingers lay close against the backs of her arms. She opened them,  and
her wings unfolded.

Only half-spread, her  wings spanned the  room. She let  them droop, and  pulled
aside the leather  curtain over the  tall narrow window.  The next building  was
very close.

'I'm going out. I need to fly.' .

'Aerie, we've come so far today -'

'Wess, I am tired. I won't go far. But I can't fly in the daytime, not here, and
the moon is waxing. If I don't go now I may not be able to fly for days.'

'It's true,' Wess said. 'Be careful.'

'I won't be gone long.' She slid  sideways out of the window and climbed  up the
rough  side  of the  building.  Her claws  scraped  into the  adobe.  Three soft
footsteps overhead, the shushh other wings; she was gone.

The  others  pushed  the  beds  against  the  wall  and  spread  their blankets,
overlapping, on the  floor. Quartz looped  the leather flap  over a hook  in the
wall and put the candle on the window-ledge.

Chan hugged Wess. 'I  never saw anyone move  as fast as Lythande.  Wess, love, I
feared he'd killed you before I even noticed him.'

'It was stupid, to speak so familiarly to a stranger.'

'But he offered us the nearest thing to news of Satan we've heard in weeks.'

'True. Maybe the fright  was worth it.' Wess  looked out of the  window, but saw
nothing of Aerie.

'What made you think Lythande was a woman?'

Wess  glanced at  Chan sharply.  He gazed  back at  her with  a mildly   curious
expression.

He doesn't know, Wess thought, astonished. He didn't realize -

'I... I don't know,' she said. 'A silly mistake. I made a lot of them today.'

It was the  first time in  her life she  had deliberately lied  to a friend. She
felt slightly ill, and when she heard the scrape of claws on the roof above, she
was glad for  more reasons than  simply that Aerie  had returned. Just  then the
tavern-keeper banged on  their door announcing  their bath. In  the confusion of
getting Aerie inside and hidden under her cloak before they could open the door,
Chan forgot the subject of Lythande's gender.


Beneath them, the noise  of revelry in the  Unicorn gradually faded to  silence.
Wess forced herself to lie still. She was so tired that she felt as if she  were
trapped in a river, with the current swirling her around and around so she could
never get her bearings. Yet she could  not sleep. Even the bath, the first  warm
bath any of them had had since leaving Kaimas, had not relaxed her.

Quartz lay solid  and warm beside  her, and Aerie  lay between Quartz  and Chan.
Wess did not begrudge Aerie or Quartz their places, but she did like to sleep in
the middle. She wished one of her friends were awake, to make love with, but she
could tell from their breathing that they were all deeply asleep. She cuddled up
against Quartz, who reached out, in a dream, and embraced her.

The darkness continued, without end, without any sign of dawn, and finally  Wess
slid out from beneath Quartz's arm  and the blankets, silently put on  her pants
and shirt, and,  barefoot, crept down  the stairs, past  the silent tavern,  and
outside. On the doorstep, she sat and pulled on her boots.

The moon gave a faint light, enough for Wess. The street was deserted. Her heels
thudded on  the cobblestones,  echoing hollowly  against the  close adobe walls.
Such a short stay in the town should not make her uneasy, but it did. She envied
Aerie her power to escape,  however briefly, however dangerous the  escape might
be. Wess walked down the street, keeping careful track of her path. It would  be
very easy to  get lost in  this warren of  streets and alleys,  niches and blank
canyons.

The  scrape  of  a  boot,  instantly stilled,  brought  her  out  of  her mental
wanderings. They wished to try to follow her? Good luck to them.

Wess was  a hunter.  She tracked  her prey  so silently  that she  killed with a
knife; in the dense rain forest where she lived, arrows were too uncertain.  She
had crept up on a panther and stroked its smooth pelt - then vanished so swiftly
that she left the  creature yowling in fury  and frustration, while she  laughed
with delight.  She grinned,  and quickened  her step,  and her  footfalls turned
silent on the stone.

Her unfamiliarity with the streets hampered her slightly. A dead-end could  trap
her. But  she found,  to her  pleasure, that  her instinct  for seeking out good
trails translated into the city. Once  she thought she would have to  turn back,
but the high wall barring her way had a deep diagonal fissure from the ground to
its top. She found just enough purchase to clamber over it. She jumped into  the
garden the wall enclosed, scampered across  it and up a grape arbour,  and swung
down into the next alley.

She ran smoothly, gladly, as her  exhaustion lifted. She felt good, despite  the
looming buildings and twisted dirty streets and vile odours.

She faded into a shadowed recess where  two houses abutted but did not line  up.
Listening, she waited.

The soft and nearly silent footsteps halted. Her pursuer hesitated. Grit scraped
between stone and  leather as the  person turned one  way, then the  other, and,
finally, chose the  wrong turning and  hurried off. Wess  grinned, but she  felt
respect for any hunter who could follow her this far.

Moving silently through shadows, she  started back towards the tavern.  When she
came to a  tumbledown building she  remembered, she found  finger- and toe-holds
and climbed to the roof of the next house. Flying was not the only talent  Aerie
had that Wess envied.  Being able to climb  straight up an undamaged  adobe wall
would be useful sometimes, too.

The rooftop was deserted. Too cold  to sleep outside, no doubt; the  inhabitants
of the city went to ground at night, in warmer, unseen warrens.

The air smelled cleaner here, so she  travelled by rooftop as far as she  could.
But the  main passage  through the  Maze was  too wide  to leap across. From the
building that faced the Unicorn, Wess observed the tavern. She doubted that  her
pursuer  could have  reached it  first, but  the possibility  existed, in   this
strange place. She saw no one. It  was near dawn. She no longer felt  exhausted,
just deliciously sleepy. She climbed down  the face of the building and  started
across the street.

Someone flung open the  door behind her, leaped  out as she turned,  and punched
her in the side of the head.

Wess crashed to the  cobblestones. The shadow stepped  closer and kicked her  in
the ribs. A line of pain wrapped  around her chest and tightened when she  tried
to breathe.

'Don't kill her. Not yet.'

'No. I have plans for her.'

Wess  recognized the  voice ofBauchle  Meyne, who  had insulted  Quartz in   the
tavern. He toed her in the side.

'When I'm done with you, bitch, you can take me to your friends.' He started  to
unbuckle his belt.

Wess tried to get up. Bauchle Meyne's companion stepped towards her, to kick her
again.

His foot swung towards  her. She grabbed it  and twisted. As he  went down, Wess
struggled up. Bauchle Meyne, surprised, lurched towards her and grabbed her in a
bear hug, pinioning her  arms so she could  not reach her knife.  He pressed his
face down close  to hers. She  felt his whisker  stubble and smelled  his yeasty
breath. He could not hold her and force his mouth to hers at the same time,  but
he slobbered on her cheek. His  pants slipped down and his penis  thrust against
her thigh.

Wess kneed him in the balls as hard as she could.

He screamed and let her go  and staggered away, holding himself, doubled  up and
moaning, stumbling  over his  fallen breeches.  Wess drew  her knife  and backed
against a wall, ready for another attack.

Bauchle Meyne's  accomplice rushed  her. Her  knife sliced  quickly towards him,
slashing his arm. He flung himself backwards and swore violently. Blood  spurted
between his fingers.

Wess heard the  approaching footsteps a  moment before he  did. She pressed  her
free hand hard against the wall behind her. She was afraid to shout for help. In
this place whoever answered might as easily join in attacking her.

But the man swore again, grabbed Bauchle Meyne by the arm, and dragged him  away
as fast as the latter, in his present distressed state, could go.

Wess sagged,  sliding down  the wall  to the  ground. She  knew she was still in
danger, but her legs would not hold her up anymore.

The footsteps ceased. Wess looked up, clenching her fingers around the handle of
her knife.        '

'Frejojan,' Lythande said softly, from ten paces away, 'sister, you led me quite
a chase.' She glanced after the two men. 'And not only me, it seems.'

'I never fought  a person before,'  Wess said shakily.  'Not a real  fight. Only
practice. No one ever  got hurt.' She touched  the side other head.  The shallow
scrape  bled freely.  She thought  about its  stopping, and  the flow  gradually
ceased.

Lythande sat on his heels beside her. 'Let me see.' He probed the cut gently. '1
thought it was bleeding, but it's stopped. What happened?'

'I don't know. Did you follow me? Did they? I thought I was eluding one person.'

'I was the only one following you,' Lythande said. 'They must have come back  to
bother Quartz again.'

'You know about that?'

'The whole city knows, child. Or  anyway, the whole Maze. Bauchle will  not soon
live it  down. The  worst of  it is  he will  never understand  what it  is that
happened, or why.'

'No more will I,' Wess said. She looked up at Lythande. 'How can you live here?'
she cried.

Lythande drew back, frowning. 'I do not  live here. But that is not really  what
you are  asking. We  cannot speak  so freely  on the  public street.' He glanced
away, hesitated, and turned back. 'Will  you come with me? I haven't  much time,
but I can fix your cut, and we can talk safely.'

'All right,' Wess said. She sheathed  her knife and pushed herself to  her feet,
wincing at the  sharp pain in  her side. Lythande  grasped her elbow,  steadying
her.

'Perhaps you've cracked a rib,' he said. They started slowly down the street.

'No,' Wess said. 'It's bruised. It will hurt for a while, but it isn't broken.'

'How do you know?'

Wess glanced at him quizzically. 'I may not be from a city, but my people aren't
completely wild. I paid attention to my lessons when I was little.'

'Lessons? Lessons in what?'

'In knowing whether I am  hurt, and what I must  do if I am, in  controlling the
processes of my body - surely your people teach their children these things?'

'My people don't  know these things,'  Lythande said. 'I  think we have  more to
talk about than I believed, frejojan.'


The Maze confused even Wess, by  the time they reached the small  building where
Lythande stopped. Wess was feeling dizzy from the blow to her head, but she  was
confident that  she was  not dangerously  hurt. Lythande  opened a  low door and
ducked inside. Wess followed.

Lythande picked up a candle. The wick sparked. In the centre of the dark room, a
shiny  spot reflected  the glow.  The wick  burst into  flame and  the spot   of
reflection grew. Wess blinked. The reflection spread into a sphere, taller  than
Lythande,  the  colour and  texture  of deep  water,  blue-grey, shimmering.  It
balanced on  its lower  curve, bulging  slightly so  it was  not quite perfectly
round.

'Follow me. Westerly.'

Lythande walked  towards the  sphere. Its  surface rippled  at her approach. She
stepped into it.  It closed around  her, and all  Wess could see  was a wavering
figure, beyond the surface, and the spot of light from the candle flame.

She touched the sphere  gingerly with her fingertip.  It was wet. Taking  a deep
breath, she put her hand through the surface.

It froze her fast;  she could not proceed,  she could not escape,  she could not
move. Even her voice was captured.

After a moment Lythande surfaced. Her hair sparkled with drops of water, but her
clothes were dry. She  stood frowning at Wess,  lines of thought bracketing  the
star on her forehead. Then her brow cleared and she grasped Wess's wrist.

'Don't fight it, little sister,' she said. 'Don't fight me.'

The blue star  glittered in the  darkness, its points  sparking with new  light.
Against great resistance, Lythande drew Wess's hand from the sphere. The cuff of
Wess's shirt was cold and sodden. In  only a few seconds the water had  wrinkled
her fingers. The  sphere freed her  suddenly and she  nearly fell, but  Lythande
caught and supported her.

'What happened?'

Still holding her up, Lythande reached into  the water and drew it aside like  a
curtain. She  urged Wess  towards the  division. Unwillingly,  Wess took a shaky
step forward, and  Lythande helped her  inside. The surface  closed behind them.
Lythande eased  Wess down  on the  platform that  flowed out  smoothly from  the
inside curve. Wess expected  it to be wet,  but it was resilient  and smooth and
slightly warm.

'What happened?' she asked again.

'The sphere is a protection against other sorcerers.'

'I'm not a sorcerer.'

'I believe you believe  that. If I thought  you were deceiving me,  I would kill
you. But if you are not a sorcerer, it is only because you are not trained.'

Wess started to protest, but Lythande waved her to silence.

'Now I understand how you eluded me in the streets.'

'I'm a hunter,' Wess said irritably. 'What good would a hunter be, who  couldn't
move silently and fast?'

'No, it was more than that.  I put a mark on you,  and you threw it off. No  one
has ever done that before.'

'I didn't do it, either.'

'Let us not argue, frejojan. There isn't time.'

She inspected the cut, then dipped her hand into the side of the sphere, brought
out a handful of water, and washed  away the sticky drying blood. Her touch  was
warm and soothing, as expert as Quartz's.

'Why did you bring me here?'

'So we could talk unobserved.'

'What about?'

'I want to ask you something first. Why did you think I was a woman?'

Wess  frowned and  gazed into  the depths  of the  floor. Her  boot dimpled  the
surface, like the foot of a water-strider.

'Because you  are a  woman,' she  said. 'Why  you pretend  you are  not, I don't
know.'

'That is not the  question,' Lythande said. 'The  question is why you  called me
"sister" the moment you saw me. No one, sorcerer. or otherwise, has ever glanced
at me once  and known me  for what I  am. You could  place me, and  yourself, in
great danger. How did you know?'

'I just knew,' Wess said.  'It was obvious. I didn't  look at you and wonder  if
you were a man or a woman. I saw you, and I thought, how beautiful, how  elegant
she is. She looks wise. She looks like she could help us. So I called to you.'

'And what did your friends think?'

'They ... I don't know what Quartz and Aerie thought. Chan asked whatever was  I
thinking of.'

'What did you say to him?'

'I ...' She hesitated, feeling ashamed. 'I lied to him,' she said miserably.  'I
said I was tired and it was dark and smoky, and I made a foolish mistake.'

'Why didn't you try to persuade him you were right?'

'Because it isn't my business to  deny what you wish known about  yourself. Even
to my oldest friend, my first lover.'

Lythande  stared up  at the  curved surface  of the  inside of  the sphere.  The
tension eased in the set of her shoulders, the expression on her face.

'Thank you, little sister,' she said, her voice full of relief. 'I did not  know
if my identity were safe with you. But I think it is.'

Wess looked up suddenly,  chilled by insight. 'You  brought me here -  you would
have killed me!'

'If I had  to,' Lythande said  easily. 'I am  glad it was  not necessary. But  I
could not trust a promise made under  threat. You do not fear me; you  made your
decision of your own free will.'

'That may be true,' Wess said. 'But it isn't true that I don't fear you.'

Lythande gazed at her. 'Perhaps I deserve your fear. Westerly. You could destroy
me with a thoughtless word. But  the knowledge you have could destroy  you. Some
people would go to great lengths to discover what you know.'

'I'm not going to tell them.'

'If they suspected - they might force you.'

'I can take care of myself,' Wess said.

Lythande rubbed the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. 'Ah, sister, I
hope  so. I  can give  you very  little protection.'  She -  he, Wess   reminded
herself- stood up. 'It's time to go. It's nearly dawn.'

'You asked questions of me - may I ask one of you?'

'I'll answer if I can.'

'Bauchle Meyne - if he hadn't behaved so stupidly, he could have killed me.  But
he taunted me  till I recovered  myself. He made  himself vulnerable to  me. His
friend knew  I had  a knife,  but he  attacked me  unarmed. I've  been trying to
understand what happened, but it makes no sense.'

Lythande drew a deep breath. 'Westerly,' she said, 'I wish you had never come to
Sanctuary. You escaped for the same reason that I first chose to appear as I now
must remain.'

'I still don't understand.'

'They never expected you to fight. To struggle a little, perhaps, just enough to
excite them. They expected  you to acquiesce to  their wishes whether it  was to
beat you, to  rape you, or  to kill you.  Women in Sanctuary  are not trained to
fight. They are taught that their only power lies in their ability to please, in
bed and in flattery. Some few excel. Most survive.'

'And the rest?'

"The rest are killed for their insolence. Or-' She smiled bitterly and  gestured
to herself. 'Some few ... find their talents are stronger in other areas.'

'But why do you put up with it?'

'That is the way it  is. Westerly. Some  would  say that is the  way it must  be
that it is ordained.'

'It isn't that way in Kaimas.' Just speaking the name of her home made her  want
to return. 'Who ordains it?'

'Why, my dear,' Lythande said sardonically, 'the gods.'

'Then you should rid yourselves of gods.'

Lythande arched one eyebrow. 'You  should, perhaps, keep such ideas  to yourself
in Sanctuary. The gods' priests are powerful.' She drew her hand up the side  of
the sphere so it parted  as if she had slit  it with a knife, and  held the skin
apart so Wess could leave.

Wess thought the shaky uncertain  feeling that gripped her would  disappear when
she had solid ground beneath her feet again.

But it did not.


Wess and  Lythande returned  to the  Unicorn in  silence. As  the Maze woke, the
street began to fill with laden carts drawn by scrawny ponies, with beggars  and
hawkers  and  pickpockets. Wess  bought  fruit and  meat  rolls to  take  to her
friends.

The Unicorn was closed and dark. As the tavern-keeper had said, he did not  open
early. Wess  went around  to the  back, but  at the  steps of  the lodging door,
Lythande stopped.

'I must leave you, frejojan.'

Wess turned back in surprise. 'But  I thought  you were coming upstairs  with me
for breakfast, to talk ..."

Lythande shook his  head. His smile  was odd, not,  as Wess had  come to expect,
sardonic, but sad. 'I wish I could,  little sister. For once, I wish I  could. I
have business to the north that cannot wait.'

'To the north! Why did you come this  way with me?' She had got her bearings  on
the way back, and  while the twisted streets  would not permit a  straight path,
they had proceeded generally southward.

'I wanted to walk with you,' Lythande said.

Wess scowled at him. 'You thought I hadn't enough sense to get back by myself.'

'This is a strange place for you. It isn't safe even for people who have  always
lived here.'

'You -' Wess stopped. Because she  had promised to safeguard his true  identity,
she could not say  what she wished: that  Lythande was treating her  as Lythande
himself did not wish to be treated.

Wess  shook her  head, flinging  aside her  anger. Stronger  than her  anger  in
Lythande's lack  of confidence  in her,  stronger than  her disappointment  that
Lythande was going away, was her surprise that Lythande had pretended to hint at
finding Satan. She did not wish to think too deeply on the sorcerer's motives.

'You have  my promise,'  she said  bitterly. 'You  may be  sure that  my word is
important to me. May your business  be profitable.' She turned away and  fumbled
for the latch, her vision blurry.

'Westerly,' Lythande said gently, 'do you  think I came back last night  only to
coerce an oath from you?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Well, perhaps not, since I have so little to give in return.'

Wess turned around. 'And do you think  I made that promise only because I  hoped
you could help us?'

'No,' Lythande said. 'Frejojan, I wish I had more time - but what I came to tell
you is this. I spoke with Jubal last night.'

'Why didn't you tell me? What did he say? Does he know where Satan is?' But  she
knew she would have no pleasure from the answer. Lythande would not have put off
good news. 'Will he see us?'

'He has not seen your friend, little sister. He said he had no time to see you.'

'Oh.'

'I did press him. He owes me, but he has been acting peculiar lately. He's  more
afraid of something else than he is  of me, and that is very strange.'  Lythande
looked away.

'Didn't he say anything?'

'He  said ...  this evening,  you should  go to  the grounds  of the  governor's
palace.'

'Why?'

'Westerly ... this may have nothing to  do with Satan. But the auction block  is
there.'

Wess shook her head, confused.

'Where slaves are offered for sale.'

Fury and humiliation and hope: Wess's reaction was so strong that she could  not
answer. Lythande came up the steps in one

stride and  put his  arms around  her. Wess  held him,  trembling, and  Lythande
stroked her hair.

'If he's there  - is there  no law, Lythande?  Can a free  person be stolen from
their home, and ... and ...'

Lythande  looked  at the  sky.  The sun's  light  showed over  the  roof of  the
easternmost building.

'Frejojan, I must go. If your friend is to be sold, you can try to buy him.  The
merchants here are  not so rich  as the merchants  in the capital,  but they are
rich enough.  You'd need  a great  deal of  money. I  think you should, instead,
apply to the  governor. He is  a young man,  and a fool  - but he  is not evil.'
Lythande hugged Wess one last  time and stepped away. 'Good-bye,  little sister.
Please believe I'd stay if I could.'

'I know,' she whispered.

Lythande strode away without  looking back, leaving  Wess alone among  the early
morning shadows.


Wess returned  to the  room at  the top  of the  stairs. When  she entered, Chan
propped himself up on one elbow.

'I was getting worried,' he said.

'I can take care of myself!' Wess snapped.

'Wess, love, what's the matter?'

She tried to  tell him, but  she could not.  Wess stood, silent,  staring at the
floor, with her back turned on her best friend.

She glanced  over her  shoulder when  Chan stood  up. The  ripped curtain let in
shards of light that cascaded over his  body. He had changed, like all of  them,
on the long journey. He was still beautiful, but he was thinner and harder.

He touched her shoulder gently. She shrank away.

He  saw  the  bloodstains  on her  collar.  'You're  hurt!'  he said,  startled.
'Quartz!'

Quartz muttered  sleepily from  the bed.  Chan tried  to lead  Wess over  to the
window, where there was more light.

'Just don't touch me!'

'Wess-'

'What's wrong?' Quartz said.

'Wess is injured.' Quartz padded barefoot towards them and Wess burst into tears
and flung herself into her arms.

Quartz held  Wess, as  Wess had  held her  a few  nights before, when Quartz had
cried silently in bed, homesick, missing her children. 'Tell me what  happened,'
she said softly.

What  Wess  managed to  say  was less  about  the attack  than  about Lythande's
explanations of it, and of Sanctuary.

'I understand,' Quartz said after Wess  had told her only a little.  She stroked
Wess's hair and brushed the tears from her cheeks.

'I don't,' Wess said. 'I must be going crazy, to act like this!' She started  to
cry again.  Quartz led  her to  the blankets,  where Aerie  sat up, blinking and
confused. Chan  followed, equally  bewildered. Quartz  made Wess  sit down,  sat
beside her  and hugged  her. Aerie  rubbed her  back and  neck and let her wings
unfold around them.

'You aren't going  crazy,' Quartz said.  'It's that you  aren't used to  the way
things are here.'

'I don't want  to get used  to things here,  I hate this  place, I want  to find
Satan, I want to go home.'

'I know,' Quartz whispered. 'I know.'

'But I don't,' Chan said.

Wess huddled against Quartz, unable to say anything that would ease the hurt she
had given Chan.

'Just leave her alone  for a little while,  Chan,' Quartz said to  him. 'Let her
rest. Everything will be all right.'

Quartz eased Wess  down and lay  beside her. Cuddled  between Quartz and  Aerie,
with Aerie's wing spread over them all, Wess fell asleep.


At midmoming, Wess awoke.  Her head ached fiercely  and the black bruise  across
her side hurt every time she took a breath. She looked around the room.  Sitting
beside her, mending a  strap on her pack,  Quartz smiled down at  her. Aerie was
brushing her short smooth fur, and Chan stared out of the window, his arm on the
sill and his chin resting on his arm, his other shirt abandoned unpatched on his
knee.

Wess got up and crossed the room. She sat on her heels near Chan. He glanced  at
her, and out of the window, and at her again.

'Quartz explained, a little ...'

'I was angry,' Wess said.

'Just because barbarians act like... like barbarians, isn't a good reason to  be
angry with me.'

He was right. Wess knew it. But  the fury and bewilderment mixed up in  her were
still too strong to shrug off with easy words.

'You know -' he said, 'you do know I couldn't act like that...'

Just  for  an  instant Wess  actually  tried  to imagine  Chan  acting  like the
innkeeper, or Bauchle Meyne, arrogantly, blindly, with his self-interest and his
pleasure  considered  above  everything  and  everyone  else.  The  idea  was so
ludicrous that she burst out in sudden laughter.

'I know you wouldn't,' she said. She had been angry at the person he might  have
been, had all the circumstances of  his life been different. She had  been angry
at the person she  might have been, even  more. She hugged Chan  quickly. 'Chan,
I've got to get free  of this place.' She took  his hand and stood up.  'Come, I
saw Lythande last night, I have to tell you what he said.'


They did  not wait  till evening  to go  to the  governor's palace,  but set out
earlier, hoping to gain an audience with the prince and persuade him not to  let
Satan be sold.

But no  one else  was waiting  till evening  to go  to the  palace, either. They
joined a  crowd of  people streaming  towards the  gate. Wess's  attempt to slip
through the throng earned her an elbow in her sore ribs.

'Don't push,  girl,' said  the ragged  creature she  had jostled.  'He shook his
staff at  her. 'Would  you knock  over an  old cripple?  I'd never get up again,
after I'd been trampled.'

'Your pardon, citizen,'  she said. Ahead  she could see  that the people  had to
crowd into a narrower space. They were, more or less, in a line. 'Are you  going
to the slave auction?'

'Slave auction? Slave auction! No  slave auction today, foreigner. The  carnival
come to town!' .

'What's the carnival?'

'A carnival! You've never heard of  a carnival? Well, ne'mind, nor has  half the
people in Sanctuary, nor seen one neither. Two twelve-years since one came.  Now
the prince is governor, we'll see  more, I don't doubt. They'll come  wanting an
admission to  his brother  the Emperor  - out  of the  hinterlands and  into the
capital, if you know.'

'But I still don't know what a carnival is.'

The old man pointed.

Over the high  wall of the  palace grounds, the  great drape of  cloth that hung
limply  around a  tall pole  slowly began  to spread,  and open  - like  a  huge
mushroom, Wess  thought. The  guy ropes  tightened, forming  the canvas  into an
enormous tent.

'Under  there -  magic, foreign  child. Strange  animals. Prancing  horses  with
pretty girls in feathers dancing  on their backs. Jugglers, clowns,  acrobats on
high wires -  and the freaks!'  He chuckled. 'I  like the freaks  best; the last
time I saw a carnival they had a sheep  with two heads and a man with two -  but
that's not a story to tell a  young girl unless you're fucking her.' He  reached
out to pinch  her. Wess jerked  back, drawing her  knife. Startled, the  old man
said. There, girl, no  offence.' She let the  blade slide back into  its sheath.
The old man laughed again. 'And  a special exhibition, this carnival -  special,
for the  prince. They  won't say  what 'tis.  But it'll  be a  sight, you can be
sure.'

Thank you, citizen,' Wess said coldly,  and stepped back among her friends.  The
ragged man was swept forward with the crowd.

Wess caught Aerie's gaze. 'Did you hear?'

Aerie nodded. 'They have him. What else could their great secret be?'

'In this skyforsaken place,  they might have overpowered  some poor troll, or  a
salamander.' She spoke sarcastically, for trolls were the gentlest of creatures,
and Wess herself had often stretched up to scratch the chin of a salamander  who
lived on a hill  where she hunted. It  was entirely tame, for  Wess never hunted
salamanders. Their hide was too thin to be useful and no one in the family liked
lizard meat. Besides, one could not  pack out even a single haunch  of fullgrown
salamander, and she would not waste her kill. 'In this place, they might have  a
winged snake in a box, and call it a great secret.'

'Wess, their secret is Satan and we  all know it,' Quartz said. 'Now we  have to
figure out how to free him.'

'You're right, of course,' Wess said.

At the gate,  two huge guards  glowered at the  rabble they had  been ordered to
admit to the parade-ground. Wess stopped before one of them.

'I want to see the prince,' she said.

'Audience next week,' he replied, hardly glancing at her.

'I need to see him before the carnival begins.'

This time he did look at her, amused. 'You do, do you? Then you've no luck. He's
gone, won't be back till the parade.'

'Where is he?' Chan asked.

She heard grumbling from the crowd piling up behind them.

'State secret,' the guard said. 'Now go in, or clear the way.'

They went in.

The crowd thinned  abruptly, for the  parade-ground was enormous.  Even the tent
seemed small; the palace loomed above  it like a cliff. If the  whole population
of Sanctuary had not  come here, then a  large proportion of every  section had,
for several merchants were setting up stalls: beads here, fruit there,  pastries
farther on; a beggar crawled slowly past; and a few paces away a large group  of
noblefolk in satins and fur and  gold walked languidly beneath parasols held  by
naked slaves. The thin autumn sunlight  was hardly enough to mar the  complexion
of the most delicate noble. or to warm the back of the most vigorous slave.

Quartz looked around, then pointed over the heads of the crowd. 'They're  making
a pathway, with ropes  and braces. The parade  will come through that  gate, and
into the tent from this  side.' She swept her hand  from right to left, east  to
west, in a long curve from the  Processional gate. The carnival tent was set  up
between the auction block and the guards' barracks.

They tried to circle the  tent, but the area beyond  it all the way to  the wall
was blocked by rope barriers. In the front, a line of spectators already  snaked
back far beyond any possible capacity.

'We'll never get in,' Aerie said.

'Maybe it's for the best,' Chan  said.  'We don't need to  be inside with  Satan
we need to get him out.'


The  shadows  lengthened across  the  palace grounds.  Wess  sat motionless  and
silent, waiting. Chan bit his fingernails and fidgeted. Aerie hunched under  her
cloak, her hood pulled low to shadow her face. Quartz watched her anxiously, and
fingered the grip of her sword.

After again being refused an audience  with the prince, this time at  the palace
doors, they had secured  a place next to  the roped-off path. Across  the way, a
work  crew put  the finishing  touches on  a platform.  When it  was  completed,
servants  hurried from  the palace  with rugs,  a silk-fringed  awning,  several
chairs, and a brazier  of coals. Wess would  not have minded a  brazier of coals
herself; as the sun fell, the air was growing chill.

The crowd  continued to  gather, becoming  denser, louder,  more and more drunk.
Fights broke out in the line at the tent, as people began to realize they  would
never  get inside.  Soon the  mood grew  so ugly  that criers  spread among  the
people, ringing bells  and announcing that  the carnival would  present one more
performance, several more performances, until all the citizens of Sanctuary  had
the opportunity to  glimpse the carnival's  wonders. And the  secret. Of course,
the secret. Still, no one even hinted at the secret's nature.

Wess pulled her cloak closer. She knew the nature of the secret; she only  hoped
the secret would see his friends and be ready for whatever they could do.

The sun touched the high wall around the palace grounds. Soon it would be dark.

Trumpets and cymbals: Wess looked  towards the Processional gates, but  a moment
later realized that all the citizens around her were straining for a view of the
palace entrance. The enormous doors swung  open and a phalanx of guards  marched
out, followed

by a group of  nobles wearing jewels and  cloth of gold. They  strode across the
hard-packed ground.  The young  man at  the head  of the  group, who wore a gold
coronet,  acknowledged  his  people's  shouts and  cries  as  if  they all  were
accolades  - which,  Wess thought,  they were  not. But  above the  mutters  and
complaints, the loudest cry was, 'The prince! Long live the prince!'

The phalanx marched straight from  the palace to the new-built  platform. Anyone
shortsighted enough to sit in that path had to snatch up their things and  hurry
out of the way. The route cleared as swiftly as water parting around a stone.

Wess stood impulsively, about to sprint across the parade route to try once more
to speak to the prince.

'Sit down!'

'Out of the way!'

Someone threw an apple core at her. She knocked it away and crouched down again,
though not because of  the threats or the  flying garbage. Aerie, too,  with the
same thought, started to her feet. Wess touched her elbow.

'Look,' she said.

Everyone within reach or hearing of the procession seemed to have the same idea.
The crowd surged in, every member clamouring for attention. The prince flung out
a handful of coins, which drew the beggars scuffling away from him. Others, more
intent  on  their  claims,  continued  to  press  him.  The  guards  fell  back,
surrounding him, nearly cutting off the sight of him, and pushed at the citizens
with spears held broadside.

The tight cordon parted and the prince mounted the platform. Standing alone,  he
turned all the way around, raising his hands to the crowd.

'My friends,' he cried, 'I know you have claims upon me. The least wrong to  one
of my people is important to me.'

Wess snorted.

'But tonight we are all privileged to witness a wonder never seen in the Empire.
Forget your troubles tonight, my friends,  and enjoy the spectacle with me.'  He
held out his hand, and brought a member of his party up beside him on the stage.

Bauchle Meyne.

'In a few  days, Bauchle Meyne  and his troupe  will journey to  Ranke, there to
entertain the Emperor my brother.'

Wess and Quartz glanced  at each other, startled.  Chan muttered a curse.  Aerie
tensed, and Wess held her arm. They all drew up their hoods.

'Bauchle goes  with my  friendship, and  my seal.'  The prince  held up a rolled
parchment secured with scarlet ribbons and ebony wax.

The prince sat down, with Bauchle Meyne in the place of honour by his side.  The
rest of the royal party arrayed themselves around, and the parade began.

Wess and her friends moved closer together, in silence.

They would have no help from the prince.

The Processional gates swung  open to the sound  of flutes and drums.  The music
continued for some while before  anything else happened. Bauchle Meyne  began to
look uncomfortable. Then abruptly a figure  staggered out on to the path,  as if
he had been  shoved. The skeletally  thin, red-haired man  regained his balance,
straightened up,  and gazed  from side  to side.  The jeers  confounded him.  He
pushed his long cape off his shoulders to reveal his star-patterned black  robe,
and took a few hesitant steps.

At  the  rope barrier's  first  wooden supporting  post,  he stopped  again.  He
gestured towards it tentatively and spoke a guttural word.

The post sputtered into flame.

The people nearby  drew back shouting,  and the wizard  lurched along the  path,
first to one side, then the other, waving his hands at each wooden post in turn.

The foggy  white circles  melded together  to light  the way.  Wess saw that the
posts were not, after all, burning. When the one in front of her began to shine,
she brought her hand  towards it, palm forward  and fingers outspread. When  she
felt no heat she touched the post gingerly, then gripped it. It held no  warmth,
and it retained its ordinary texture, splintery rough-hewn wood.

She remembered what Lythande said, about her having a

strong talent. She wondered if she could do the same thing. It would be a useful
trick, though not very important. She had no piece of wood to try it on, nor any
idea how to  start to try  in the first  place. She shrugged  and let go  of the
post. Her handprint  -she blinked. No,  it was her  imagination, not a  brighter
spot that she had touched.

At the  prince's platform,  the wizard  stood staring  vacantly around.  Bauchle
Meyne leaned  forward intently,  glaring, his  worry clear  and his anger barely
held in check. The wizard gazed  at him. Wess could see Bauchle  Meyne's fingers
tense around  a circle  of ruby  chain. He  twisted it.  Wess gasped. The wizard
shrieked and flung up  his hands. Bauchle Meyne  slowly relaxed his hold  on the
talisman. The wizard spread his arms. He was trembling. Wess, too, was  shaking.
She felt as if the chain had whipped around her body like a lash.

The wizard's trembling hands moved:  the prince's platform, the wooden  parts of
the chairs, the poles supporting the  fringed awning, all burst suddenly into  a
fierce white fire. The guards leaped forward in fury and confusion, but  stopped
at a word from their prince. He  sat calm and smiling, his hands resting  easily
on the bright arms of his throne. Shadowy flames played across his fingers,  and
the light spun up between his  feet. Bauchle Meyne leaned back in  satisfaction,
and nodded to the wizard. The  other nobles on the platform stood  disconcerted,
awash in the light  from the boards between  the patterned rugs. Nervously,  but
following the example of their ruler, they sat down again.

The wizard stumbled onward,  lighting up the rest  of the posts. He  disappeared
into  the darkness  of the  tent. Its  supports began  to shine  with the  eerie
luminescence. Gradually, the barrier-ropes and  the carpets on the platform  and
the awning over the prince and the canvas of the tent became covered with a soft
gentle glow.

The prince applauded, nodding and smiling towards Bauchle Meyne, and his  people
followed his lead.

With  a  sharp  cry,  a  jester  tumbled  through  the  Processional  gates  and
somersaulted along the path. After him came the flutists and drummers, and  then
three ponies with bedraggled feathers attached to their bridles. Three  children
in spangled shorts and halters rode them.  The one in front jumped up and  stood
balanced on her pony's rump, while the two following did shoulder-stands, braced
against the ponies' withers. Wess, who had never been on a horse in her life and
found the  idea quite  terrifying, applauded.  Others in  the audience applauded
too, here and there, and the prince himself idly clapped his hands. But nearby a
large grizzled man  laughed sarcastically and  yelled, 'Show us  more!' That was
the way most of the audience  reacted, with hoots of derision and  laughter. The
child standing up stared straight ahead. Wess clenched her teeth, angry for  the
child but impressed  by her dignity.  Quartz's oldest child  was about the  same
age. Wess took her hand, and Quartz squeezed her fingers gratefully.

A cage, pulled by a yoke of oxen, passed through the dark gate. Wess caught  her
breath. The oxen pulled  the cage into the  light. It carried an  elderly troll,
hunched in the corner on dirty straw. A boy poked the troll with a stick as  the
oxen drew abreast  of the  prince. The  troll leaped  up and  cursed in  a  high
pitched angry voice.

'You uncivilized barbarians! You, prince -  prince of worms, I say, of  maggots!
May your penis  grow till no  one will have  you! May your  best friend's vagina
knot itself with you inside! May you contract water on the brain and sand in the
bladder!'

Wess felt herself  blushing: she had  never heard a  troll speak so.  Ordinarily
they were the most  cultured of forest people,  and the only danger  in them was
that one might find  oneself listening for a  whole afternoon to a  discourse on
the shapes of clouds or the effects of certain shelf-fungi. Wess looked  around,
frightened that someone would take offence at what the troll was saying to their
ruler. Then she remembered that he was speaking the Language, the real tongue of
intelligent  creatures,  and  in this  place  no  one but  she  and  her friends
understood.

'Frejojan!' she cried on impulse. 'Tonight - be ready - if I can -!'

He hesitated in the midst of a caper, stumbled, but caught himself and gambolled
around, making nonsense noises till he faced her. She pulled her hood back so he
could recognize her later. She let it fall again as the cart passed, so  Bauchle
Meyne would not see her from the other side of the path.

The grey-gold furry little  being gripped the bars  of his cage and  looked out,
making horrible faces at the crowd, horrible noises in reaction to their  jeers.
But between the shrieks and the gibberish, he said, 'I wait -'

After he passed them, he began to wail..

'Wess -' Chan said.

'How could I let him go by without speaking to him?'

'He isn't a friend, after all,' Aerie said.

'He's enslaved, just like Satan!' Wess  looked from Aerie's face to Chan's,  and
saw that neither understood. 'Quartz -?'

Quartz nodded. 'Yes. You're right. A  civilized person has no business being  in
this place.'

'How are you going  to find him? How  are you going to  free him? We don't  even
know how we're going to free  Satan! Suppose he needs help?' Aerie's  voice rose
in anger.

'Suppose we need help?'

Aerie turned her back on Wess and  stared blankly out into the parade. She  even
shrugged off Quartz's comforting hug.

Then there was no more time for arguing. Six archers tramped through the gate. A
cart followed. It was a flatbed,  curtained all around, and pulled by  two large
skewbald horses, one with a wild  blue eye. Six more archers followed.  A mutter
of confusion rippled over the crowd, and then cries of 'The secret! Show us  the
secret!'

The postillion  jerked the  draught horses  to a  standstill before  the prince.
Bauchle Meyne climbed stiffly off the platform and on to the cart.

'My lord!'  he cried.  'I present  you -  a myth  of our  world!' He yanked on a
string and the curtains fell away.

On the  platform, Satan  stood rigid  and withdrawn,  staring forward,  his head
high. Aerie moaned and Wess tensed,  wanting to leap over the glowing  ropes and
lay about with her knife, in full view of the crowd, whatever the  consequences.
She cursed herself for being so weak and stupid this morning. If she had had the
will to attack, she could have ripped out Bauchle Meyne's guts.

They had not broken  Satan. They would kill  him before they could  strip him of
his pride. But they had stripped him naked, and shackled him. And they had  hurt
him. Streaks of silver-grey cut across  the red-gold fur on his shoulders.  They
had beaten him. Wess clenched her fingers around the handle other knife.

Bauchle Meyne picked up a long pole. He was not fool enough to get within  reach
of Satan's talons.

'Show yourself!' he cried.

Satan did  not speak  the trade-language,  but Bauchle  Meyne made  himself well
enough understood with the end of  the pole. Satan stared at him  without moving
until the young man stopped poking at him, and, with some vague awareness of his
captive's dignity, backed  up a step.  Satan looked around  him, his large  eyes
reflecting the light like a cat's. He faced the prince. The heavy chains clanked
and rattled as he moved.

He raised his arms. He opened his hands, and his fingers unfolded.

He spread his great red wings. Wizard-light glowed through the translucent webs.
It was as if he had burst into flame.

The prince  gazed upon  him with  silent satisfaction  as the  crowd roared with
surprise and astonishment.

'Inside,' Bauchle Meyne said, 'when I release him, he will fly.'

One of  the horses,  brushed by  Satan's wingtip,  snorted and  reared. The cart
lurched forward. The postillion yanked the  horse's mouth to a bloody froth  and
Bauchle Meyne lost his balance and stumbled to the ground. His face showed  pain
and Wess was glad. Satan barely shifted. The muscles tensed and slid in his back
as he balanced himself with his wings.

Aerie made a high, keening sound, almost beyond the limits of human hearing. But
Satan heard. He did not flinch; unlike the troll, he did not turn. But he heard.
In the bright  white wizard-light, the  short fur on  the back of  his shoulders
rose, He made  an answering cry,  a sighing: a  call to a  lover. He folded  his
wing-fingers back along his arms. The webbing trembled and gleamed.

The postillion kicked  his horse and  the cart lumbered  forward. For the  crowd
outside, the show was over.

The  prince stepped  down from  the platform,  and, walking  side by  side  with
Bauchle Meyne and followed by his retinue, proceeded into the carnival tent.

The four friends  stood close together  as the crowd-moved  past them. Wess  was
thinking. They're going to let him fly, inside. He'll be free ... She looked  at
Aerie. 'Can you land on top of the tent? And take off again?'

Aerie looked at the steep canvas slope. 'Easily,' she said.


The  area behind  the tent  was lit  by torches,  not wizard-light.  Wess  stood
leaning against the grounds' wall, watching the bustle and chaos of the  troupe,
listening to the applause and laughter of the crowd. The show had been going  on
a long time now; most of the people who had not got inside had left. A couple of
carnival workers kept a  bored watch on the  perimeter of the barrier,  but Wess
knew she could slip past any time she pleased.

It  was Aerie  she worried  about. Once  the plan  started, she  would be   very
vulnerable. The night was  clear and the waxing  moon bright and high.  When she
landed on top of the tent she would be well within range of arrows. Satan  would
be in even more danger. It was up  to Wess and Quartz and Chan to create  enough
chaos so the archers would be too distracted to shoot either of the flyers.

Wess was rather looking forward to it.

She slipped  under the  rope when  no one  was looking  and strolled through the
shadows  as  if  she  belonged  with  the  troupe.  Satan's  cart  stood  at the
performers' entrance, but Wess did not go near her friend now. Taking no  notice
of her, the children on their ponies trotted by. In the torchlight the  children
looked thin and tired  and very young, the  ponies thin and tired  and old. Wess
slid  behind the  rank of  animal cages.  The carnival  did, after  all, have  a
salamander, but a  piteous, poor and  hungry-looking one, barely  the size of  a
large dog. Wess broke the lock on its cage. She had only her knife to pry  with;
she  did the  blade no  good. She  broke the  locks on  the cages  of the  other
animals, the half-grown  wolf, the pygmy  elephant, but did  not yet free  them.
Finally she reached the troll.

'Frejojan,' she whispered. 'I'm behind you.'

'I hear you, frejojan.' The troll came to the back of his cage. He bowed to her.
'I regret my unkempt condition, frejojan;  when they captured me I had  nothing,
not even a  brush.' His golden  grey-flecked hair was  badly matted. He  put his
hand through the bars and Wess shook it.

'I'm Wess,' she said.

'Aristarchus,' he said. 'You speak with  the same accent as Satan -  you've come
for him?'

She nodded. 'I'm going to break the lock on your cage,' she said. 'I have to  be
closer to the tent when they take him in to make him fly. It would be better  if
at first they didn't notice anything was going wrong ...'

Aristarchus nodded. 'I won't escape till you've begun. Can I be of help?'

Wess glanced along the row of cages. 'Could you - would it put you in danger  to
free the animals?' He was old; she did not know if he could move quickly enough.

He chuckled.  'All of  us animals  have become  rather good  friends,' he  said.
'Though the salamander is rather snappish.'

Wess  wedged  her knife  into  the padlock  and  wrenched it  open.  Aristarchus
snatched it off  the door and  flung it into  the straw. He  smiled, abashed, at
Wess.

'I find my own temper rather short in these poor days.'

Wess reached through  the bars and  gripped his hand  again. Near the  tent, the
skewbald  horses  wheeled  Satan's cart  around.  Bauchle  Meyne yelled  nervous
orders. Aristarchus glanced towards Satan.

'It's good you've come,' he said. 'I persuaded him to cooperate, at least for  a
while, but he does not  find it easy. Once he  made them angry enough to  forget
his value.'

Wess nodded, remembering the whip scars.

The cart rolled forward; the archers followed.

'I have to hurry,' Wess said.

'Good fortune go with you.'

She moved as close to the tent as  she could. But she could not see inside;  she
had to  imagine what  was happening,  by the  tone of  the crowd. The postillion
drove the horses around the ring.  They stopped. Someone crawled under the  cart
and unfastened the shackles from below, out of reach of Satan's claws. And  then
-

She heard the sigh,  the involuntary gasp of  wonder as Satan spread  his wings,
and flew.

Above her. Aerie's shadow cut the air.  Wess pulled off her cloak and waved  it,
signalling. Aerie dived for the tent, swooped, and landed.

Wess drew  her knife  and started  sawing at  a guy-rope.  She had  been careful
enough of the edge  so it sliced through  fairly quickly. As she  hurried to the
next line, she heard the tone  of the crowd gradually changing, as  people began
to notice  something amiss.  Quartz and  Chan were  doing their  work, too. Wess
chopped at the  second rope. As  the tent began  to collapse, she  heard tearing
canvas above where Aerie  ripped through the roof  with her talons. Wess  sliced
through a third rope,  a fourth. The breeze  flapped the sagging fabric  against
itself. The  canvas cracked  and howled  like a  sail. Wess  heard Bauchle Meyne
screaming, 'The ropes! Get the ropes, the ropes are breaking!'

The tent  fell from  three directions.  Inside, people  began to  shout, then to
scream, and they tried to flee. A few spilled out into the parade-ground, then a
mob fought through the narrow  opening. The shriek of frightened  horses pierced
the crowd-noise,  and the  scramble turned  to panic.  The skewbald horses burst
through the crush, scattering people right and left, Satan's empty cart lurching
and bumping along behind. More terrified people streamed out after them. All the
guards from the palace  fought against them, struggling  to get inside to  their
prince.

Wess turned  to rejoin  Quartz and  Chan, and  froze in  horror. In  the shadows
behind the tent, Bauchle Meyne snatched up an abandoned bow, ignored the  chaos,
and   aimed a  steel-tipped arrow  into the   sky. Wess  sprinted towards  him,
crashed into him, and shouldered him off-balance. The bowstring twanged and  the
arrow fishtailed up, falling back spent to bury itself in the limp canvas.

Bauchle Meyne sprang up, his high complexion scarlet with fury.

'You, you  little bitch!'  He lunged  for her,  grabbed her,  and backhanded her
across the face. 'You've ruined me for spite!'

The blow knocked  her to the  ground. This time  Bauchle Meyne did  not laugh at
her.  Half-blinded, Wess  scrambled away  from him.  She heard  his boots  pound
closer and  he kicked  her in  the same  place in  the ribs.  She heard the bone
crack. She'dragged at  her knife but  its edge, roughened  by the abuse  she had
given it, hung up on  the rim of the scabbard.  She could barely see and  barely
breathe. She struggled with the knife and Bauchle Meyne kicked her again.

'You can't get away this time, bitch!'  He let Wess get to her hands  and knees.
'Just try to run!' He stepped towards her.

Wess flung herself at his  legs, moved beyond pain by  fury. He cried out as  he
fell. The one thing he could never  expect from her was attack. Wess lurched  to
her feet. She ripped her knife from its scabbard as Bauchle Meyne lunged at her.
She plunged it into him, into his belly, up, into his heart.

She knew  how to  kill, but  she had  never killed  a human  being. She had been
drenched by her prey's  blood, but never the  blood of her own  species. She had
watched creatures  die by  her hand,  but never  a creature  who knew what death
meant.

His heart still pumping blood around the blade, his hands fumbling at her hands,
trying  to push  them away  from his  chest, he  fell to  his knees,  shuddered,
toppled over, convulsed, and died.

Wess  jerked  her knife  from  his body.  Once  more she  heard  the shrieks  of
frightened horses and the curses of furious men, and the howl of a  half-starved
wolf cub.

The tent shimmered with wizard-light.

I wish it were torches, Wess screamed  in her mind. Torches would burn you,  and
burning is what you deserve.

But there was no fire, and nothing burned. Even the wizard-light was fading.

Wess looked into the sky. She raked her sleeve across her eyes to wipe away  her
tears.

The two flyers soared towards the moon, free.

And now -

Quartz and Chan were nowhere in sight. She could find only terrified  strangers:
performers in spangles.  Sanctuary people fighting  each other, and  more guards
coming to the rescue of their lord. The salamander lumbered by, hissing in fear.

Horses clattered towards her and she spun, afraid of being run down. Aristarchus
brought them  to a  halt and  flung her  the second  horse's reins.  It was  the
skewbald stallion from Satan's cart, the one with the wild blue eye. It  smelled
the blood on her and snorted and reared. Somehow she kept hold of the reins. The
horse reared again  and jerked her  off her feet.  Bones ground together  in her
side and she gasped.

'Mount!' Aristarchus cried. 'You can't control him from the ground!'

'I don't know  how -' She  stopped. It hurt  too much to  talk. 'Grab his  mane!
Jump! Hold on with your knees.' She did as he said, found herself on the horse's
back, and nearly fell off his other side. She clamped her legs around him and he
sprang forward. Both the reins were on one side of his neck - Wess knew that was
not right. She pulled on  them and he twisted in  a circle and almost threw  her
again. Aristarchus urged  his horse forward  and grabbed the  stallion's bridle.
The animal stood  spraddle-legged, ears flat  back, nostrils flaring,  trembling
between Wess's legs. She hung on to his mane, terrified. Her broken ribs hurt so
badly she felt faint.

Aristarchus leaned forward, blew gently into the stallion's nostrils, and  spoke
to him  so quietly  Wess could  not hear  the words.  Slowly, easily,  the troll
straightened out the reins. The  animal gradually relaxed, and his  ears pricked
forward again.

'Be easy on his mouth, frejojan,' the troll said to Wess. 'He's a good creature,
just frightened.'

'I have to find my friends,' Wess said.

'Where are you to meet them?'

Aristarchus's calm voice helped her regain her composure.

'Over there.'  She pointed  to a  shadowed recess  beyond the  tent. Aristarchus
started for it, still holding her horse's bridle. The animals stepped delicately
over broken equipment and abandoned clothing.

Quartz and Chan  ran from the  shadowed side of  the tent. Quartz  was laughing.
Through  the  chaos  she saw  Wess,  tagged  Chan on  the  shoulder  to get  his
attention, and changed direction to hurry towards Wess.

'Did you see them fly?' Quartz cried. 'They outflew eagles!'

'As long as they outflew arrows,'  Aristarchus said dryly. 'Hurry, you, the  big
one, up behind me, and you,' he said to Chan, 'behind Wess.'

They did  as he  ordered. Quartz  kicked the  horse and  he sprang  forward, but
Aristarchus reined him in.

'Slowly, children,' the troll  said. 'Slowly through the  dark, and no one  will
notice.'

To Wess's surprise, he was quite correct.

In the city they kept the  horses at the walk, and Quartz  concealed Aristarchus
beneath her cloak.  The uproar fell  behind them, and  no one chased  them. Wess
clutched the  stallion's mane,  still feeling  very insecure  so high  above the
ground.

A direct escape from  Sanctuary did not lead  them past the Unicorn,  .or indeed
into  the Maze  at all,  but they  decided to  chance going  back; the  risk  of
travelling unequipped through the mountains this late in the fall was too great.
They  approached  the  Unicorn  through back  alleys,  and  saw  almost no  one.
Apparently the denizens  of the Maze  were as fond  of entertainments as  anyone
else in  Sanctuary. No  doubt the  opportunity to  watch their  prince extricate
himself from a collapsed tent was almost the best entertainment of the  evening.
Wess would not have minded watching that herself.

Leaving the horses hidden in shadow with Aristarchus, they

crept quietly up the  stairs to their room,  stuffed belongings in their  packs,
and started out again.

'Young gentleman and his ladies, good evening.'

Wess spun around, Quartz right beside her gripping her sword. The  tavern-keeper
flinched back from them, but quickly recovered himself.

'Well,' he said  to Chan, sneering.  'I thought they  were one thing,  but I see
they are your bodyguards.'

Quartz  grabbed  him by  the  shirt front  and  lifted him  off  the floor.  Her
broadsword scraped from  its scabbard. Wess  had never seen  Quartz draw it,  in
defence or anger; she had never seen the blade. But Quartz had not neglected it.
The edge gleamed with transparent sharpness.

'I forswore the frenzy when I abandoned war,' Quartz said very quietly. 'But you
are very nearly  enough to make  me break my  oath.' She opened  her hand and he
fell to his knees before the point of the sword.

'I meant no harm, my lady -'

'Do not call  me "lady"! I  am not of  noble birth! I  was a soldier  and I am a
woman. If that cannot deserve your courtesy, then you cannot command my mercy!'

'I meant no harm, I meant no offence.  I beg your pardon ...' He looked up  into
her unreadable silver eyes. 'I beg your pardon, northern woman.'

There was no contempt in his voice  now, only terror, and to Wess that  was just
as bad.  She and  Quartz could  expect nothing  here, except  to be  despised or
feared. They had no other choices.

Quartz sheathed her sword. 'Your silver  is on the table,' she said  coldly. 'We
had no mind to cheat you.'

He scrabbled up and away from them,  into the room. Quartz grabbed the key  from
the inside, slammed the door, and locked it.

'Let's get out of here.'

They clattered down the stairs. In the street, they tied the packs together  and
to the horses' harnesses  as best they could.  Above,. they heard the  innkeeper
banging at the door, and when he failed to break it down, he came to the window.

'Help!'  he  cried.  'Help,  kidnappers!  Brigands!'  Quartz  vaulted  up behind
Aristarchus and  Chan clambered  up behind  Wess. 'Help!'  the innkeeper  cried.
'Help, fire! Floods!'

Aristarchus  gave his  horse its  head and  it sprang  forward. Wess's  stallion
tossed his mane, blew his breath out hard and loud, and leaped from a standstill
into  a gallop.  All Wess  could do  was hold  on, clutching  the mane  and  the
harness, hunching over the horse's withers, as he careered down the street.


They galloped through the outskirts  of Sanctuary, splashed across the  river at
the ford,  and headed  north along  the river  trail. The  horses sweated into a
lather and Aristarchus insisted on slowing down and breathing them. Wess saw the
sense of that, and, too, she could detect no pursuit from the city. She  scanned
the sky, but darkness hid any sign of the flyers.

Abandoning the headlong pace, they walked the horses or let them jog. Each  step
jarred Wess's ribs. She tried to concentrate on pushing out the pain, but to  do
it well she needed to stop, dismount, and relax. That was impossible right  now.
The road and the night led on forever.

At dawn, they reached the faint abandoned trail Wess had brought them in on.  It
led away from the road, directly up into the mountains.

The trees, black beneath the slate-blue sky, closed in overhead. Wess felt as if
she had fought her way out of a nightmare world into a world she knew and loved.
She did not  yet feel free,  but she could  consider the possibility  of feeling
free again.

'Chan?'

'I'm here, love.'

She took his hand, where he held  her gingerly around the waist, and kissed  his
palm. She leaned back against him, and he held her.

A stream gushed between the gnarled roots of trees, beside the nearly  invisible
trail.

'We  should  stop  and  let  the  horses  rest,'  Aristarchus  said.  'And rest,
ourselves.'

'There's a  clearing a  little way  ahead,' Wess  said. 'It  has grass. They eat
grass, don't they?'

Aristarchus chuckled. 'They do, indeed.'

When  they reached  the clearing.  Quartz jumped  down, stumbled,  groaned,  and
laughed.  'It's  a long  time  since I  rode  horseback,' she  said.  She helped
Aristarchus off. Chan dismounted and stood testing his legs after the long ride.
Wess sat where  she was. She  felt as if  she were looking  at the world through
Lythande's secret sphere.

The sound of  great wings filled  the cold dawn.  Satan and Aerie  landed in the
centre of the clearing and hurried towards them.

Wess twined her fingers  in the skewbald's striped  mane and slid off  his back.
She leaned against  his shoulder, exhausted,  taking short shallow  breaths. She
could hear Chan and Quartz greeting the flyers. But Wess could not move.

'Wess?'

She turned slowly, still holding the horse's mane. Satan smiled down at her. She
was used to flyers being lean, but  they were sleek: Satan was gaunt,  his  ribs
and  hips sharp beneath  his skin. His  short fur was dull and dry, and  besides
the scars on his back he had marks on his ankles,  and around his throat,  where
he had been bound.

'Oh, Satan -' She embraced him, and he enfolded her in his wings.

'It's  done,' he  said. 'It's  over.' He  kissed her  gently. Everyone  gathered
around him. He  brushed the back  of his hand  softly down the  side of Quartz's
face, and bent down to kiss Chan.

'Frejojani ...' He looked at them all,  then, as a tear spilled down his  cheek,
he wrapped himself in his wings and cried.

They  held him  and caressed  him until  the racking  sobs ceased.  Ashamed,  he
scrubbed away the  tears with the  palm of his  hand. Aristarchus stood  nearby,
blinking his large green eyes.

'You must think me an awful fool, Aristarchus, a fool, and weak.'

The troll shook his head. 'I think, when I can finally believe I'm free ...'  He
looked at Wess. Thank you.'

They sat beside the stream to rest and talk.

'It's possible that we aren't even being followed,' Quartz said.

'We watched the city, till you entered  the forest,' Aerie said. 'We saw no  one
else on the river road.'

'Then they might not have realized anyone but another flyer helped Satan escape.
If no one saw us fell the tent -'

Wess reached  into the  stream and  splashed her  face, cupped  her hand  in the
water, and lifted it to her lips. The first rays of direct sunlight pierced  the
branches and entered the clearing.

Her hand was still bloody. The blood  was mixing with the water. She choked  and
spat, lurched to her feet,  and bolted. A few paces  away she fell to her  knees
and retched violently.

There  was nothing  in her  stomach but  bile. She  crawled to  the stream   and
scrubbed her hands, then her face, with sand and water. She stood up again.  Her
friends were staring at her, shocked.

'There was someone,' she said. 'Bauchle Meyne. But I killed him.'

'Ah,' Quartz said.

'You've given me  another gift,' Satan  said. 'Now I  don't have to  go back and
kill him myself.'

'Shut up, Satan, she's never killed anyone before.'

'Nor have I. But I would have ripped  out his throat if just once he'd left  the
chains slack enough for me to reach him!'

Wess wrapped  her arms  around herself,  trying to  ease the  ache in  her ribs.
Suddenly Quartz was beside her.

'You're hurt - why didn't you tell me?'

Wess shook her head, unable to answer. And then she fainted.


She woke up at midaftemoon, lying in the shade of a tall tree in a circle of her
friends. The horses  grazed nearby, and  Aristarchus sat on  a stone beside  the
stream, combing the  tangles from his  fur. Wess got  up and went  to sit beside
him.

'Did you call my name?'

'No,' he said.

'I thought I heard -' She shrugged. 'Never mind.'

'How are you feeling?'

'Better.' Her ribs were bandaged tight. 'Quartz is a good healer.'

'No one is following. Aerie looked, a little while ago.'

'That's good. May I comb your back for you?'

'That would be a great kindness.'

In silence, she combed him, but she was paying very little attention. The  third
time the comb caught on a knot, Aristarchu" protested quietly.

'Sister, please, that fur you're plucking is attached to my skin.'

'Oh, Aristarchus, I'm sorry...'

'What's wrong?'

'I don't know,'  she said. 'I  feel -1 want  -1...' She handed  him the comb and
stood. 'I'm going to walk up the trail a little way. I won't be gone long.'

In the silence of  the forest she felt  easier, but there was  something pulling
her, something calling to her that she could not hear.

And then she did  hear something, a rustling  of leaves. She faded  back off the
trail, hiding herself, and waited.

Lythande walked slowly, tiredly, along the trail. Wess was so surprised that she
did not speak as the wizard passed her, but a few paces on, Lythande stopped and
looked around, frowning.

'Westerly?'

Wess stepped into sight. 'How did you know I was there?*

'I felt you near ... How did you find me?'

'I thought I heard someone call me. Was that a spell?'

'No. Just a hope.'

'You look so tired, Lythande.'

Lythande nodded. 'I received a challenge. I answered it.'

'And you won -'

'Yes.' Lythande smiled bitterly. 'I still  walk the earth and wait for  the days
of Chaos. If that is winning, then I won.'

'Come back to camp and rest and eat with us,'

'Thank you,  little sister.  I will  rest with  you. But  your friend -you found
him?'

'Yes. He's free.'

'You all escaped unhurt?'

Wess shrugged,  and was  immediately sorry  for it.  'I did  crack my  ribs this
time.' She did not want to talk about the deeper hurts.

'And now - are you going home?'

'Yes.'

Lythande smiled. 'I might have known you would find the Forgotten Pass.'

They walked together back towards camp. A little scared by her own  presumption,
Wess reached out and took the wizard's hand in hers. Lythande did not draw away,
but squeezed her fingers gently.

'Westerly -' Lythande  looked at her  straight on, and  Wess stopped. 'Westerly,
would you go back to Sanctuary?'

Stunned and horrified, Wess said, 'Why?'

'It isn't as bad as it seems at first. You could learn many things...'

'About being a wizard?'

Lythande hesitated. 'It would  be difficult, but -  it might be possible.  It is
true that your talents should not be wasted.'

'You don't understand,' Wess said. 'I don't  want to be a wizard. I wouldn't  go
back to Sanctuary if that were the reason.'

Lythande said, finally, 'That isn't the only reason.'

Wess took Lythande's hand between her own,  drew it to her lips, and kissed  the
palm. Lythande reached up and caressed Wess's cheek. Wess shivered at the touch.

'Lythande, I  can't go  back to  Sanctuary. You  would be  the only reason I was
there - and it would change me. It did change me. I don't know if I can go  back
to being the person I was before I came here, but I'm going to try. Most of what
I did  learn there  I would  rather never  have known.  You must understand me!'
'Yes,' Lythande said. 'It was not fair of me to ask.'

'It isn't  that I  wouldn't love  you,' Wess  said, and  Lythande looked  at her
sharply. Wess took as deep a breath as she could,

and continued.  'But what  I feel  for you  would change,  too, as I changed. It
wouldn't be love anymore. It would be ... need, and demand, and envy.'

Lythande sat on a tree root,  shoulders slumped, and stared at the  ground. Wess
knelt beside her and smoothed her hair back from her forehead.

'Lythande...'

'Yes, little sister,' the magician whispered, as if she were too tired to  speak
aloud.

'You must  have important  work here.'  How could  she bear  it otherwise?  Wess
thought. She is  going to laugh  at you for  what you ask  her, and explain  how
foolish it is,  and how impossible.  'And Kaimas, my  home... you would  find it
dull -' She stopped, surprised at herself for her hesitation and her fear.  'You
come with me, Lythande,' she said abruptly. 'You come home with me.'

Lythande stared at her, her expression unreadable. 'Did you mean what you said '

'It's so beautiful, Lythande. And  peaceful. You've met half my  family already.
You'd like the rest of them, too! You said you had things to leam from us.'

'- about loving me?'

Wess caught her breath. She leaned forward and kissed Lythande quickly, then,  a
second time, slowly, as she had wanted to since the moment she saw her.

She drew back a little.

'Yes,'she said.'Sanctuary made me  lie, but I'm not  in Sanctuary now. With  any
luck I'll never see it again, and never have to lie anymore.'

'If I had to go-'

Wess grinned.  'I might  try to  persuade you  to stay.'  She touched Lythande's
hair. 'But  I wouldn't  try to  hold you.  As long  as you  wanted to  stay, and
whenever you wanted to come back, you'd have a place in Kaimas.'

'It isn't your resolve I doubt, little sister, it's my own. And my own strength.
I think I would not want to leave your home, once I'd been there for a while.'

'I can't see the future,' Wess said.  Then she laughed at herself, for what  she
was saying to a wizard. "Perhaps you can.'

Lythande made no reply.

'All I  know,' Wess  said, 'is  that anything  anyone does  might cause pain. To
oneself, to  a friend.  But you  cannot do  nothing.' She  stood up. 'Come. Come
sleep, with me and my friends. And then we'll go home.'

Lythande stood up too. 'There's so much you don't know about me, little  sister.
So much of it could hurt you.'

Wess closed her eyes, wishing, like a child at twilight seeking out a star.  She
opened her eyes again.

Lythande smiled. 'I will come with you. If only for a while.'

They walked together, hand in hand, to join the others.



ISCHADE

C. J. Cherryh

1

Shadows slipped  along the  cobbles in  this deepest  sink of  the Maze, in that
small light of the moon which  wended its way among the overhangs  and glistened
wetly  off noisome  moistures. A  well-dressed woman  had no  place here,   even
shadow-clad in black, robed and hooded - but she went deliberately, weaving only
from the course of the foulest and widest streams, stepping over most.

And a ruffler, a bravo, a sometime  thief- Sjekso by name-he took to the  alleys
as a matter of course.

Sjekso belonged here, had been whelped here, wove in his steps too, but not from
fastidiousness, as  he came  from the  opposite direction  down the  web of dark
ways. A handsome fellow was Sjekso  Kinzan, a blond youth with curling  locks, a
short and carefully kept beard, his  shirt and jerkin open from the  recent heat
of the common room of  the Vulgar Unicorn - from  the heat, and, truth be  told,
from a certain vanity. He radiated sex, wine vapours, and a certain peevishness:
was out of pocket from the dice, had lost even Minsy's purchasable favours to  a
bad throw ... his absolute nadir of discomfort. Minsy was off with that whoreson
Hanse, while he-

He staggered his hazed way back towards his lodgings and his own doorway off the
Serpentine. He snuffed and faltered and lamented his misfortune with himself. He
hated  Hanse,  at  least  for the  evening,  and  plotted  elaborate and  public
revenge...

And blinking in the  vapours up from the  harbour and in the  Uncertain focus of
his  eyes, he  found his  way intersected  with a  woman's in  the alleyway.  No
ordinary doxy,  this: a  courtesan of  quality strayed  from some rendezvous, an
opportunity some fickle god had tossed into his path or him into hers.

'Well,' he said, and flung wide his arms, leaned from one side of the way to the
other to block her attempt to walk around him ... a little fun, he reckoned. And
again, owlishly: 'Well.'-but she made a quick move to go past him and he  seized
her in  that swift  pass, grabbed  and grasped  and felt  female roundnesses  in
delightful proportions. His  prey writhed and  pushed and kneed  at him, and  he
gripped her hair through the hood, drew  her head back and kissed her with  fair
aim and rising passion.

She struggled, which motion only felt the better in his hands, and she gave  out
muffled cries, which were far from  loud, his mouth covering hers the  while. He
held her tight and  sought with his eyes  for some more convenient  alcove among
the broken amphorae and barrels, a place where they might not be disturbed.

All at once another  sound penetrated the fog  of sense and sound,  the scuff of
another foot near him. Sjekso started to spin himself and his victim about, went
the least bit over to that foot and  had a hand clamped on to his own  chin, his
head jerked back, and a deadly keen blade at his throat in the same instant.

'Let the lady go,'  a male whisper suggested,  and he carefully, trading  in all
his remaining advantage, relaxed his  hands and let them fall,  wondering wildly
all the while whether his only chance  might be in some wild try at  escape. The
woman in the edge of his vision stepped back, brushed at her robes, adjusted her
hood. The knife rode razor-edged at his throat and the hand which held his  chin
gave him nothing.

Mradhon Vis kept his grip and held the ruffian just off his balance, looked in a
moment's distraction at the lady in question  ... at a severe and dusky face  in
the faint  light of  the alleyway.  She was  beautiful. His  romantical soul was
touched - that seldom-afforded self which launched itself mostly in the wake  of
more profitable motives.  'Be off,'  he told  Sjekso, and  flung the  villain  a
good several body  lengths down  the  alley;  and Sjekso  scrambled up  and  set
to his heels without stopping to see anything.

'Wait!' the woman called after Sjekso.  The would-be rapist spun about with  his
back to a wall, ducking an imagined blow from behind. Mradhon Vis, dagger  still
in hand, stood facing him, utterly confounded.

'The boy and I are old friends,' she said - and to Sjekso: 'Isn't it so?'

Sjekso straightened  with his  back against  the wall  and managed  a bow,  if a
wobbling one ... managed a sneer, his braggadocio recovered in the face of a man
he, after all,  knew from the  dice table that  night - and  Mradhon Vis took  a
tighter and furious grip  on his dagger, knowing  this vermin at least  from the
tables at the Unicorn.

But feminine fingers touched very lightly on his bare arm. 'A misunderstanding,'
the woman said, very soft and low. 'But thank you for stepping in, all the same.
You have some skill, don't  you? Out of the army,  maybe - I ask you,  sir ... I
have need to find someone ... with that  skill. To guard me. I have to come  and
go hereabouts. I could pay, if you could find me someone like yourself, a friend
maybe - who might serve...'

'At your service,' Sjekso said, with  a second grander flourish. 'I know  my way
around.'

But the  woman never  turned to  see. Her  eyes were  all for  Mradhon, dark and
glittering  in  the  night.  'He's   one,  in  fact,  I  might   sometimes  want
protection/row. - Do you know someone who might be interested?'

Mradhon  straightened his  back and  took a  superior stance.  'I've served   as
bodyguard now and again. And as it happens, I'm at liberty.'

'Ah,' she said, a hand to her robed breast, which outlined female curves in  the
shadow. And she turned at once to the confused villain, who had taken  advantage
of the moment to slip towards the  shadows and the corner. 'No, no, wait.  I did
promise you this evening. I had no right to put you off; and I want to talk with
you.  Be  patient.'  -  A  glance  then  back,  her  hand  bringing a purse from
beneath her robes. She loosed the strings  and took out a gold coin that  caught
Mradhon's whole attention, the more so when she dropped the heavy purse into his
hand. Only the one coin she held, it winking colourless bright in the moonlight,
and she held that up like an  icon for Sjekso's eyes - another look  at Mradhon:
'I lodge seventh down from this corner, the first steps you'll come to that have
a newel on the rail: on your right  as you go. Go there. Learn the place  so you
can find it tomorrow morning, and be waiting there for me at midmorning. I'll be
there. And the purse is yours.'

He considered the  weight in his  palm, heavy as  with gold. 'I'll  find it,' he
said, and, less than confident of the situation at hand: 'Are you sure you don't
want me to stay about?'

Black brows  drew together,  a frown  uncommonly grim.  'I have  no doubts to my
safety. - Ah, your name, sir. When I pay, I like to know that.'

'Vis. Mradhon Vis.'

'From-'

'Northward. A lot of places.'

'We'll talk. Tomorrow morning. Go on,  now. Believe me, that the quarrel  wasn't
what it seemed.'

'Lady,' he murmured - he had known polite company once. He clenched the purse in
his fist and turned off in the direction she had named - not without a  backward
look. Sjekso still waited where he  had fixed himself against the wall;  but the
lady seemed to know he would look back, and turned a shadowy look on him.

Mradhon  moved  on  quickly  and further  along  the  winding  way, stopped  and
anxiously shook out  the purse into  his hand, a  spill of five  heavy pieces in
gold and half a dozen of silver.  Hot and cold went through him, like  the shock
of a  blow, a  tremor through  things that  were ...  A second  glance back, but
buildings had come between him and the woman and her bought-boy Sjekso. Well, he
had hired to stranger folk and no few worse to look on. He gave a twitch of  his
shoulders at that proceedings back there and shrugged it off. There was gold  in
his possession, a flood of gold.  His gallantry had  come from his  own poverty,
from one  look  at the woman's  fine clothing and  a sure knowledge  that Sjekso
Kinzan was all hollow when pushed. And  for that gold in his hand he  would have
waited in  the alley  all night,  or beaten  Sjekso to  fine rags,  no questions
asked.

It occurred to him while  he went that it might  involve more than that, but  he
went, all the same.

The woman looked back at Sjekso and smiled, a fervid smile which made wider  and
wider chaos of Sjekso's grasp of the situation. He stood away from his wall  and
- sobered as he  had been in the  encounter, deprived of the  vaporous warmth of
the wine  in  his blood  -  still he  recovered  something of  anticipation,  re
estimated his own considerable  animal charm in the  light of the lady's  sultry
dark eyes, in  the moonlike gleam  of the gold  coin she held  up before him. He
grinned, his confidence restored,  stood. easier still as  she came to him  - it
might have been the wine after all,  this new blush of heat; it might  have been
her slim fingers which touched  at his collar and drew  a line with the edge  of
the coin down among the fine hairs  of his chest, disturbing there the chain  of
the luckpiece he wore.

His luck had improved, he reckoned, laying it all to his way with women. She had
liked it after  all... they all  did; and she  might be parted  from more than a
golden coin, and  if she thought  of using him  and that bastard  northerner one
against the other, good: there was a  chance of paying off  Mradhon Vis. He  had
skills the northerner  did not; and he  knew  how to get the  most out  of them.
He took most of  his living from women, in one way or the other.

'What's your name?' she asked him.

'Sjekso Kinzan.'

'Sjekso. I have a  place ... not the  lodgings where I sent  that fellow; that's
business. But my  real house... near  the river. A  little wine, a  soft bed ...
I'll bet you're good.'

He laughed. 'I make it  a rule never to go  out of my own territory  till I know
the terms. Here's good enough. Right over here. And I'll bet you don't care.'

'Mine's Ischade,' she murmured  distractedly, as he put  his hands up under  the
robes. She swayed against him, her own  hands on him, and he found the  coin and
took it  from her  unresisting fingers.  She brushed  his lips  with her own and
urged him on. 'My name's Ischade.'


2

A corpse was no uncommon  sight in the Maze. But  one sprawled in the middle  of
the Serpentine, in the first light of the sun - the potboy of the Unicorn  found
the blond male corpse when he came out to heave the slops, a corpse on the inn's
very doorstep, a body quite stiff and  cold, and he knew Sjekso Kinzan. He  spun
on his  heel and  started to  run back  in -  thought again  and darted, back to
search for valuables  ... after all,  some less acquainted  and deserving person
might come  along. He  found the  brass luckpiece,  found the  purse ...  empty,
except for an old nail  and a bit of lint  - dropped the luckpiece down  his own
collar, jumped up and ran inside in  breathless haste, to spill his news to  the
morning's  first  stirrers-forth in  the  tavern; and  the  fact of  one  of the
Unicorn's regular patrons lying stiff at the door brought a stamping up and down
the stair and a general outpouring of curious and half-awake ovemighters.

That was how it came to Hanse, a disturbance under Minsy Zithyk's rented  window
next door.

The gathering  around the  body in  the street  was solemn  ... partly a kind of
respect and partly  morning headaches, more  and more onlookers  arriving as the
commotion became its  own reason for  being. Hanse was  one of the  first, stood
with his arms clenched into  a tight fold - he  had his daggers: had them  about
his person natural as breathing. His scowl and awakened-owl stare at the  corpse
of Sjekso Kinzan, his arms about his ribs holding his spine stiff- warned  Minsy
Zithyk off. She  stood snuffling and  holding her own  ribs, doubtless with  the
other half of a throbbing headache. Hanse wanted no hanging-on, now, of Sjekso's
longtime woman. The dice game and the  wager stuck in his mind and he  felt eyes
on him, himself part of the morning's gossip, with a man he had diced with lying
cold in the soiled stream of a drain.

'Who  got  him?' Hanse  asked  finally, and  there  was a  general  shrugging of
shoulders. 'Who?' Hanse  snapped, looking round  at the onlookers.  A corpse was
indeed no novelty in the Maze, but  an otherwise young and healthy one, with  no
mark of violence on it... but a man on the doorstep of the tavern he frequented,
a turn or two of the alleys to his own lodgings ...

There were amenities like territory. A man was never assured ... but there  were
places and places, and when he was in his own place, he was least likely to  end
up among the morning's debris. There were stirrings among the crowd,  discomfort
- with Hanse, for one, whose smallish size meant a temper backed with knives,  a
bad reputation for every kind of mischief.

And his sullen, headachy stare passed right round to a stranger in the territory
- to one Mradhon Vis; to a new and frequent patron at the Unicorn. 'You,'  Hanse
said. 'You left about the same time last night. You see anything?'

A shrug. A useless question. No one in the Maze saw anything. But Vis looked too
thin-lipped about the shrug and  Hanse  looked back with  a blacker stare  still
had sudden awareness of the silence of the crowd when he spoke, of eyes on  him;
and he unfolded his arms and thought  of how they had jostled in a  doorway last
night,  Sjekso and  Mradhon Vis,  and Sjekso  had laughed  and acted  his  usual
flippant self at Vis's expense. Hanse drew quiet conclusions - quiet because  he
cut a mean figure at the moment, having got off with a dead man's last cash  and
last pleasure ... he swept a glance  about at faces dour with their own  private
conclusions. No love lost on him or dead Sjekso; but Sjekso being local and dead
was the focus of pity, while regarding himself- there was quite another thing in
the air.

Vis started to  leave, edging away  through the crowd.  "That's the one  to look
at,' Hanse said. 'Hey, you! You  don't like the questions, do you?  The garrison
threw you out,  hey? You come  back here, whoreson  coward, you don't  turn your
back on me.'

'He's crazy,' Vis said, stopped behind an unwilling screen of onlookers who were
trying to melt  in all directions,  but Mradhon kept  with the migrating  cover.
'Figure who got his money and his woman,, you figure that and wonder who did for
him, that's who...'

Hanse  went for  the knives.  'Wasn't no  mark on  him,' a  youngish voice   was
shrilling.  The crowd  was swinging  wildly out  of the  interval Vis  was  busy
preserving. Minsy yelled,  and several strong  and larger arms  wound themselves
into Hanse's elbows and about his middle.  He heaved and kicked to no use  while
Mradhon Vis, in the clear, straightened his person and his clothing.

'Crazy,' Vis said again, and Hanse  poured invective on him and most  especially
on those holding him from his knives - cold, sweating afraid, because Vis  might
do anything, or the crowd might, and the knives were all he had. But Vis  walked
off then, at an increasing pace,  and Hanse launched another kick and  a torrent
of abuse on those holding him.

'Easy.' The grip on  his left was Cappen  Varra's, an arm tucked  elbow to elbow
into his arm and a hand locked on his wrist; he had no grudge with the minstrel.
It was a calm voice, a cultivated, better-than-thou voice: Hanse hated Varra  at
the moment, but the grip persuaded and  the object of his rage was off  down the
street. He took his weight on his own feet and slowly, brushing off his  clothes
while he stood  fairly shaking with  his anger, Varra  eased up and  let him go.
Igan on the  other side, big,  not very bright  Igan, let go  his other arm, and
claps on his shoulders  and sympathy offered ...  started to settle his  stomach
and persuade him he had some credit here. 'Let's have a drink,' Varra said. 'The
corpse-takers will get the rumour - do you want to be standing here conspicuous?
Come on inside.'

He went as  far as the  door of the  Unicorn, looked back,  and there was  Minsy
standing over  Sjekso, sniffling;  and Sjekso  lying there  a great deal sadder,
open-eyed, while the crowd started away under the same logic.

Hanse wanted the drink.

*

Mradhon Vis turned the comer, none following, stopped against an alley wall  and
let the tremors pass from his limbs. Ugly, that back there. Corpses, he had seen
- had created his share, in and out of mercenary service. He had no wish to take
on useless trouble ... not now, not with gold in his boot and a real prospect of
more. A bodyguard  sometimes, but he  was not big  enough for hired  muscle; and
with a surly and foreign look - even  guard jobs were hard come by. He meant  to
be on time for this one. A patron who could come up with a fistful of gold on  a
whim was one to cultivate - if only her throat was still uncut. And that thought
worried  him:  that  was  what  had drawn  him,  against  his  natural  and wary
instincts, to that noisy scene outside the  Vulgar Unicorn - a body he had  last
seen alive and escorting the patron  who was his latest  and most  fervent hope.
He was more than concerned.

Other  alarums sounded  in his  mind, warnings  of greater  complexity, but   he
refused them, because they led to suspicions of traps, and connivances; he had a
knife in his belt, his wits about him, and no little experience of employers  of
all sorts, no few of whom had had notions of refusing him his pay at the end ...
one way and the other.


3

The Vulgar  Unicorn still  thumped with  comings and  goings, an  untidy lot  of
early-moming patrons and irregulars. For his  own part Hanse drank down his  ale
and nursed  his head  back to  size, across  the table  from Cappen.  He had  no
inclination to talk or to be the centre of anything at the moment.

'They've got him off,'  the potboy said from  the door. So the  corpse was gone.
That cleared out some of the traffic. Inquiry and snoopery might be close behind
the corpsetakers. 'Excuse  me,' Cappen Varra  said, likewise discreet,  and left
his place at the table, bound for the door. Hanse recovered his equilibrium  and
stood up from the bench amid the general flow of bodies outward.

Someone touched his arm, a feathery light hand. He looked back, expecting Minsy,
in no mood for her  - and looked up instead  into eyes like a statue's  eyes, as
unfocused and  as vague,  in a  male face  old/young and  beardless. The man was
blind.

'Hanse called Shadowspawn?' The voice was like the man, smooth and sere.

'What's my business with you?'

'You lost a friend.'

'Ha. No friend. Acquaintance. What's it to you and me?'

The groping hand caught his arm and directed it to the other hand, which  caught
his fingers  - he  began to  resist this  eerie familiarity,  and then  felt the
unmistakable metal heaviness of a coin.

'I'm listening.'

'My employer has more for you.'

'Where?'

'Not here. Do you want a name? Come outside.'

The blind man would  have taken him out  the front, among the  others, following
the crowd. Hanse  pulled him instead  to another door,  out into the  back alley
where few had  gone and those  already vanished. 'Now,'  Hanse said, taking  the
blind man by the arm and backing him against the wall. 'Who?'

'EnasYorl.'

He dropped his hand from the blind man's arm. 'Him. For what?'

'He wants to talk to you. You come - recommended. And you'll be paid.'

Hanse took in his breath and fingered his coin, looked down at it a space, found
it new minted and  heavy silver, and reckoned  uneasily in what quarters  he was
recommended. Coin of that  denomination was not so  easily come by ...  but Enas
Yorl - the wizard  took few visitors ...  and there were things  lately amiss in
Sanctuary. Things larger than Hanse Shadowspawn. Rumours filtered down into  the
Maze.

Sjekso dead, unmarked, and  Enas Yorl - offering  money to talk to  a thief: the
world was mad. He walked it for the narrow lane it was.

'All right,' he said, because Yorl had a long reach and because ignorance scared
him. 'You show me.'

The blind man took his hand, and they went, down the alley and out again. It was
so unfaltering a progress, so lacking a blind man's moves, that Hanse inevitably
suspected some sham, such as beggars used - an actor and a good one, he thought,
appreciating art.

Mradhon Vis fretted, paced below the  balcony at the wooden stairs he  had found
last night. It was a  place as sordid as any  in the Maze, unpainted boards  and
age-slimed stone,  a place  atilt towards  the alley  and propped  on boards and
braces. It breathed decrepitude.

And more and more as he waited in this unlikely place, he gnawed on the  thought
of his hoped-for patron ... dead,  it might be, victim along with  Sjekso, lying
unfound as yet in some other alleyway. He had been mad to have gone off and left
a woman in the backways of the Maze; a cat among hounds, that piece... and gone,
snatched up, swallowed up - with friends, gods, more than likely money like that
had friends and enemies. His mind built more and grimmer fancies ... of  princes
and politics  and clandestine  meetings, this  Sjekso perhaps  more than  he had
seemed, this woman casting about money to  be rid of a witness too much  for the
man she was with, an expedience -

He built such fancies, paced, stalked finally halfway up the creaking length  of
the stairs  and came  back down  in indecision  - then  up again,  gathering his
courage and his resolve. He reached the swaying balcony, tried the door.

It swung inward, never locked or barred. That startled him. He slipped the knife
from his belt and pushed the door all the way open - smelled incense and spices,
perfumes. He walked in, pushed the door very gently shut again. A dim light came
from a milky parchmented casement, cast colour slantwise on a couch spread  with
russet silk, on dusty draperies and stacks of cloth and oddments.

Wings snapped and rustled. He spun about into a crouch, found only a large black
bird chained to a perch  against the wall in which  the door was set. His  heart
settled again. He  straightened. He should  have smelled the  creature: no large
bird lived in  a place without  some fetor ...  but the perfume  and the incense
were that strong, that he had not. He ignored the creature, poked about amid the
debris on a table, feminine clutter of small boxes and brocade.

And the steps creaked, outside. He cast  about him in a sudden fright, knife  at
the ready, slid in among the abundant shadows of the room. The steps reached the
top, and the bird stirred and beat his wings in gusts as the door opened.

Black robes cast a silhouette  against the daylight; the lady  turned unerringly
in his direction, took no fright at him or the knife, merely closed the door and
reached up and dropped  her hood from a  tumble of midnight hair  about a sombre
face. 'Mradhon Vis,' she said quietly.  She belonged in the dark of  this place,
amid the clutter of worn and beautiful things. It was incredible that she  could
ever have walked through sunlight.

'Here,' he said, 'lady.'

'Ischade,' she named herself. 'Do you make free of my lodgings?'

'The man you were with last night. He's dead.'

'I've heard, yes.' The voice was unreadable and cool. 'We parted company. Sad. A
handsome boy.'  She walked  to the  slight illumination  of the parchment panes,
drew an incense wand from others in a dragon vase and added it to the one  which
was dying, a curl of pale smoke in the light. She looked back then. 'So. I  have
employment for you. I trust you're not fastidious.'

'Not often.'

'You'll find rewards. Gold. And it might be - further employment.'

'I don't shy off at much.'

'I'll trust not.' She walked near him,  and he recalled the knife and nipped  it
into its sheath. Her   eyes followed the move  and looked up  at  him ... grave,
so very  grave. Women  of quality  he had  seen tended to nutter the eyes;  this
one  stared eye to  eye, and  he  found himself inclined  to break  the contact,
to look  down or elsewhere.  She  extended her  hand, close to  touching  him, a
move he thought might be an invitation to take liberties of his own.

And then  she drew  the hand  back and  the moment  passed. She  walked over and
offered the bird a morsel  from the cup at the  side of the stand. The  creature
took it with a great flapping of wings.

'What do you have in mind?' he asked, vexed at this mincing about, with so  much
at stake. 'It's not legal, I'll guess.'

'It  might  involve  powerful  enemies.  I  can  guarantee  -  equally  powerful
protections. And the reward. Of course that.'

'Who's to die? Someone else ... like that boy last night?'

She looked about, lifted  a brow, then turned  her attentions back to  the bird,
stroked black feathers  with a forefinger.  'Priests, perhaps. Does  that bother
you?'

'Not unduly. A man wonders -'

'The risk is mine. So are the consequences. Only I need someone to take care  of
physical difficulties. I assure you I know what I'm about.'

There was more than the scent of incense about the place. Of a sudden there  was
quite another thing... the smell of  wizardry. He gathered that, as he  had been
picking up the pieces  all along. It   was not a  thing a man  expected  to find
everywhere. But it  was here. And  there were crimes  done in the  Maze, by that
means and others. Spells, he had dealt with, at least at distance... had a  hint
then of more rewards than gold. 'You have protections, do you?'

A second time that cool look. 'I assure you it's well thought out.'

'Protections for me as well.'

'They'd be far  less interested in  you.' She walked  back to the  table, to the
light, a shadow against  it. 'This evening,' she  said, 'you'll earn the  gold I
gave you. But perhaps,  just perhaps, you ought  to go out again.  And come back
again when I tell you. To prove you know that my door isn't yours.'

Heat surged to his face,  words into his mouth. He  thought of the money and  it
stifled the rest.

'Now,' she said. 'About the other thing  you have in mind ... well, that   might
come later, mightn't it? But you choose, Mradhon Vis. There's gold ... or  other
rewards. And you can tell me which you'd like. Ah. Both, perhaps. Ambition.  But
know me better, Mradhon  Vis, before you propose  anything aloud. You might  not
like my terms. Take the gold. The  likes of Sjekso Kinzan is commoner than  you.
And far less to regret.'

So she  had killed  the boy.  Markless, and  cold and  stiff within sight of the
doorway which  might have  saved him.  He thought  about it...  and the ambition
persisted. It was power. And that was more than the money, much more.

'You'll go now,' she said very, very softly. 'I wouldn't tempt you. Consider  we
have a bargain. Now get out.'

No one talked  to him after  that fashion ...  at least not  twice. But he found
himself silenced and his steps tending to the door. He stopped there and  looked
back to prove he could.

'I've needed a man of your sort,' she said, 'in certain ways.'

He walked out, into the sun.


4

It was one  of those neighbourhoods  less frequented by  the inhabitants of  the
Maze, and Hanse had a dislocated,  uncomfortable feeling in this guide and  this
place, creeping as they did through the cleaner, wider backways of Sanctuary  at
large. It was not his territory or close to any of his known boltholes.

And in the shadows of an alley far along the track, his guide paused and shed an
inner and ragged cloak  from beneath the outer  one, proffering it. 'Put  it on.
You'll not want to be noticed hereabouts for yourself.'

Hanse took it, not without distaste: it was grey and a mass of patches. He swung
it about his shoulders and it was long enough to hide him down to midcalf.

His guide held out a dingy bandage as well. 'For your eyes. For your own safety.
The house  has ...  protections. If  I told  you only  to shut  your eyes, you'd
forget at the worst moment. And my master wants you whole.'

Hanse stared  at the  offered rag,  liking all  of this  less and less; and very
softly he  drew the dagger from  his arm sheath and  extended the blade  towards
the guide's face.

Not a flinch or blink. That sent a prickling up his spine. He brought the  point
of the blade very close to the blind eyes and, truth, the man did not react.  He
flipped the blade into its sheath.

'If you have doubts,'  the blind man said,  'accept my master's assurances.  But
don't under any account look from beneath the bandage once inside. My  blindness
... has reasons.'

'Huh.' Hanse  took the  dirty bandage,  feeling far  from assured;  but  he  had
dealt  with  nervous uptowners  before,  and under  conditions  and  precautions
more bizarre and hazardous. He  wound it about his eyes and  tied it firmly:  it
was true  - about  Enas Yorl's  doorway there  were rumours, and bad ones.

And when the blind man grasped his  sleeve and began to guide him a  quiet panic
set in:  he had  no liking  of this  helplessness -  they entered  a street,  he
guessed, because he heard  a change in the  sound of their footsteps;  he sensed
watchers about, stumbled suddenly on an  unevenness in the paving and heard  the
blind man hiss a warning, wrenching at his sleeve: 'Three steps up.'

Three steps to the top and a moment waiting while his guide opened a door.  Then
a tug at his sleeve drew him inside, where a cold draught blew on his face until
the door  boomed solidly  shut behind  him. Instinctively  he put  a hand on his
wrist sheath, keeping the knife hilt comfortingly under his fingers. Again a tug
at his  sleeve drew  him on  ... the  guide; it  must still  be the guide and no
stranger by him. He wanted a voice. 'How much further with this?' he asked.


Claws scrabbled on stone on his left, a heavy body slithered closer in haste. He
made  a frantic  move to  get the  knife out,  but the  guide jerked  him to   a
standstill. 'Don't offend it,' the guide said. 'Don't try to look. Come on.'

A reptile hissed; and by that sound it was a big one. Something flicked over the
surface of his boot and coiled about his ankle, instantly withdrawing. The guide
drew him on, away from  the touch and down a  hall which echoed more closely  on
either hand, where the distance  was all in front of  them ... and into a  place
which smelled of coals and hot metal and strange, musky incense.

The guide  stopped, on  his right.  'Shadowspawn,' a  new voice  said, a throaty
sigh, low, and to his left. He reached for the blindfold, hesitated. 'Go ahead,'
the new voice invited him, and he pulled it down.

A robed and hooded form sat in this narrow marble hall - fine robes, in midnight
blue and bright silver, in deep shadow, beside a heating brazier. Hanse  blinked
in the recent pressure on his eyes -  the robes seemed to swell and sink in  the
vicinity of the chest, and the right  arm, the hand resting visible ... it  went
dark, that hand, and then, a deception of his abused eyes, went pale and  young.
'Shadowspawn.'  The voice  too was  clearer, younger.  'You lost  a friend  last
night. Do you want to know how?'

That unnerved him, a threat on a level he understood. His hand fidgeted  towards
his sheath-bearing wrist, his mind conjuring more and unblinded servants in  the
shadows.

'Ischade is her name,' the voice ofEnas Yorl continued, rougher now ... and  was
the figure itself smaller and wider? 'She's also a thief. And she killed  Sjekso
Kinzan. Do you want more?'

Hanse assumed a more careless stance, flipped the hand outward, palm up.  'Money
got me here. Ifyou,want more of my time to listen to this, it costs.'

'She's in your own neighbourhood. That information might be worth even more than
money to you.'

'What, this name of yours?'

'Ischade. A  thief. She's  better than  you, Shadowspawn.  Your knives might not
stop her.' The voice roughened further. 'But you're good and you're smart.  I've
heard so. From - no matter.  I have my sources. I'm told  you're extraordinarily
discreet.'  He moved  the fingers,  a gesture  sideways. 'Darous,  give him  the
amulet.'

The blind man drew  something from the heart  of his robes; Hanse's  eyes darted
nervously from the  wizard he was  trying to watch  to that distraction, a  gold
teardrop that spun and dazzled on a chain.

'Take it,' Enas Yorl said.  A degree rougher yet. A  sigh like the sea, or  like
hot iron plunging into water. 'This Ischade - steals from wizards. Steals spells
and suchlike.  Her own  abilities are  small in  that regard...  but she  made a
mistake once, and the spell on Ischade  is nothing small or harmless. A man  who
shares her  bed, shall  we say?  - discovers  that. He  dies ...  of no apparent
cause. Like your  friend Kinzan. Like  a number of  others I know  of. The curse
affects her humour. Imagine - to pursue lover after lover and kill them all.  If
I hire you, Shadowspawn, you might be  glad of such protections as I offer  you.
Take it.'

'Who says I'm to hire?' Hanse looked unhappily from servant to master. The  hand
which now peeped  from the shifting  robe was woman-delicate.  'Who says that  a
dozen Sjeksos are any of my concern? I'm my concern. Me. Hanse. I don't have any
interest  in Sjekso.  So I  just stay  out of  the whole  business. That's  what
interests me.'

'Then you'll  run, will  you, and  find some  safer place  to steal.'  The voice
ground like rocks tumbling. 'And you'll  ignore my gold and protection. Both  of
which you may need. - It's no great  thing I ask, simply a matter of spying  out
where she is. Did I ask you to go against her yourself? No. A small favour, well
paid. And you've done favours like that before. Would you have that known - that
you've  worked  in  high  places?  Your  past  patron  wouldn't  appreciate that
publicity. He wouldn't retaliate against me, no. But you - how long do you think
you'd live, thief, if your connections went public?'

Hanse had sucked in  his breath. He forced  a grin then, struck  a lighter pose,
hand on hip. 'So, well, paid in gold, you said?'

'After.'

'Now.'

'Darous, give the man sufficient as earnest. And give him the amulet.'

Hanse turned from the  wizard, whose voice had  acquired a hissing quality:  and
the hand - had vanished  into one of those blinks  of the eye that deceived  the
mind and memory that  anything had - a  moment earlier - been  there. Hanse took
the chain and put it over his head. The amulet itself hit his bare throat and it
was bitter and burning cold. The servant held out a purse. Hanse took that, felt
the weight in his hand, opened the neck of it and looked at the gold and  silver
abundance inside. His heart beat wildly, while against his neck the metal failed
to be warmed as metal  ought, stayed there like a  lump of ice. It sent  a vague
malaise through  him, which  changed character  from moment  to moment like -'So
what am I supposed to do?' he asked. 'And where do I look?'

'A house,' a woman's voice said to his right, and he looked, blinked, found only
the hooded form in the chair. 'Seventh  in the alley called Snake. On the  right
as you go from  the Serpentine at Acban's  Passage. She lodges there.  Mark what
she does and where she goes. Don't  attempt to prevent her. I only want  to know
the business that brought her to Sanctuary.'

Hanse let go a sigh, relief, for  all that the robes shifted again -felt  a wild
confidence in himself (it  might have been the  money) that he could  get out of
this easily,  and with  still more  money, and  an employer  satisfied, who  was
powerful and rich. Hanse Shadowspawn, Hanse the thief, small Hanse the knife ...
had  friends  in  high  places, a  condition  unexpected.  He  expanded in  this
knowledge and stood loose, dropped the purse into his shirt, ignoring the  chill
at his neck. 'So, then, and I come here from time to time and report to you.'

'Darous will  find you  from time  to time,'  the same  voice said. The changing
seemed to have settled for the moment. 'Depend on that contact. Good-day to you.
Darous will show you out.'

Hanse made a nourish of a bow,  turned to the servant and indicated they  should
go.

'The blindfold,' the blind servant said. 'Use it, master thief. My master  would
regret an accident, especially now.'

Hanse put his hand on the metal droplet that hung like ice at his throat, turned
to glower at  the wizard. 'I  thought this was  supposed to take  care of things
like that.'

'Did I say so? No,  I didn't say. I wouldn't  be rash in relying on  it. Against
some things it has no protection at all. My guardians in the hall, for instance,
would never notice it.'

'Then what good is it?'

'Much ... in its right place. Afraid, thief?'

'Huh,' Hanse said critically.  Laughed and swung on  his heel, caught the  blind
servant by the arm  and started out with  him. But remembering the  movements in
the outer hall, the thing which had brushed at his leg - 'All right, all right,'
he said suddenly, and let go the  man's arm to put the blindfold back  in place.
'All right, rot you, wait.'

The thief went, and Enas Yorl rose  from his chair. His shape had settled  again
into a form far more  pleasant than most. He walked  to a hall more interior  to
his house, examined hands delicate and fine, that were purest pleasure to  touch
- and all the  worse when they would  begin ... next moment  or next day ...  to
change.

It was a revenge, a none too subtle revenge, but then the wizard who had  cursed
him had never been much on subtleties, which was why his young wife had had Enas
Yorl in her bed in the first place - a younger Enas Yorl in those days, but  age
meant nothing now. The forms his affliction  cast on him might be old or  young,
male or female, human or  - not. And the years  frightened him. All the time  he
had  had, to  become master  of his  arts, and  his arts  had no  power to  undo
another's spell. No one could. And  some of his forms, still, were  young, which
suggested that he did not age, that there was no end to this torment - for ever.

Yet wizards died, lately, in Sanctuary. Tell the thief that was the name of  the
game, and even threats  might not persuade him.  But in these deaths,  Enas Yorl
was desperately, passionately interested.  Ischade ... Ischade: the  name tasted
of vile rumour; a wizardous thief, a preyer upon wizards, a conniver in  shadows
and dark secrets, this Ischade, with reason to hate the prey she chose.

And all her lovers died, softly, gently for the most part; but Enas Yorl was not
particular in that regard.

He paused a moment,  hearing the great outer  doors boom shut. The  thief was on
his way, thief to take a thief. And Enas Yorl felt a sudden cold. Wizards  died,
in Sanctuary,  and this  possibility fascinated  him, taunted  him with hope and
fear: with fear -because shapes like  this he wore turned him coward,  reminding
him there were pleasures to be had. He feared death at such times ... while  the
thief he had sent out went to find it for him.

Darous came back, softly  stopped on the marble  paving. 'Well done,' Enas  Yorl
said.

'Follow him, master?'

'No,' Enas  Yorl said.  'No need.  None at  all.' He  looked distractedly  about
again, with the queasiness of impending  change upon him. He fled suddenly,  his
steps quicker  and quicker  on the  pavings. Darous  could see  nothing - Darous
sensed, but that was another matter. There was, however, pride.

And within the hour, in a dark  recess of the house with the basilisks  prowling
the halls  unchecked, something  gibbered within  a pile  of midnight robes, and
with  keen sense  of beauty  imprisoned in  that moaning  heap, longed   towards
oblivion.

Darous, who saw nothing, sensed the  essence of this change and kept  himself to
other halls.

The basilisks, whose cold eyes saw very well, writhed scaly-lithe away in haste,
outstared and overwhelmed.


5

Not many women came to the Unicorn, not many at least of the elevated sort,  and
this one  took a  table to  herself and  held it.  One of  the Unicorn's muddled
regulars brushed by, and  leaned close, and offered  to sit down ...  but a long
hand from beneath those black robes waved an idle and disinterested dismissal. A
ring glinted there,  a silver serpent,  and the bully's  bleared eyes stared  at
that, at immaculate long nails, into dark almond eyes beneath the shadowy  hood.
And a fog  of alcohol seemed  to grow thicker  then,  so that  he forgot all the
wittiness  he  had meant  to say,  forgot for  a moment   to close  his mouth. A
second wave of  the thin,  olive-skinned  hand  and  he  forgot  everything  and
stumbled  away  in confusion.

'Acolyte,' Cappen Varra thought in his  own counsel, slouched on a bench  in the
nook nearest the back door. There was somewhat of chaos in the Unicorn of  late,
a certain lack of  the authority which had  held the peace, and  that sort moved
in, cheap muscle.  But the woman  - that was  something extraordinary, like  the
Unicorn before; a woman, a stranger in the neighbourhood... He was intrigued  by
the dark robes and the fineness of them, and his fingers moved restlessly on the
moisture-ringed tabletop, thinking of a song, fingering imaginary strings of the
harp he  had pawned  (again) and  thinking -  oddly -  on Hanse  Shadowspawn, in
another and quite irrelevant train of thought, as Hanse had ridden his mind  all
day. Sjekso gone,  Hanse vanished utterly,  and night falling  outside ... Hanse
was up to no good, it was certain. There had been neither sight nor sound of him
all day  long and  certain whispers  passed in  the Unicorn,  with more and more
credibility: of  revenge, of  Hanse, about  the likelihood   of survival  of one
Mradhon Vis -  or Hanse, should the two meet. And about a certain blind man  who
had found his   way without aid  into the Unicorn  and out again,  with Hanse in
tow... a  blind man  and no  beggar, for  all his  looks -  but a  man of darker
rumour.

It  was  curious business,  and  more than  mildly  unpleasant. Cappen  was  not
sanguine. Hanse stalking Vis - it  was quite unlikely. Hanse was all  temper and
bluster. If anyone was doing the stalking it was likeliest to be Vis, and  Hanse
was ill-advised  to have  prodded that  surly-countenanced bastard  ... far more
trouble than Hanse really wanted, that was sure. Likely it was Hanse in  hiding,
if Vis had not yet got him. Cappen picked up his cup again, and of a sudden  his
eyes hooded and while his hand carrying his cup to his lips never faltered,  the
sip he took was slow  and studied: he watched a  second man make attempt on  the
lady's table.

And that was Mradhon  Vis himself... who went  up quietly, and met  no rebuff at
all. The lady lifted  her face and her  eyes to him -  a face certainly worth  a
song, although a dark and sombre one. And when her eyes lit on Mradhon Vis, very
quietly the lady  got to her  feet and in  Vis's still silent  company... walked
towards the back door of  the tavern. Only a few  heads turned, of those at  the
other tables, and those only casually.  There was at the same time  the faintest
ofpricklings at Cappen's  nape, a feeling  he knew: he   touched the  amulet  at
his throat,  a silver  coiled serpent...  a gift,  a protection against  spells,
more  efficacious than  most priest-blessed gimcrack tokens ....  under its  own
terms.  He saw,  with a  touch of unease the greater because no one else in  the
room seemed   to see  ... how  Mradhon Vis  and his   dark companion moved, with
common purpose and peculiar menace.

Strangeness enough progressed in Sanctuary ... deaths which made a man naturally
think on protections  of the sorcerous  kind, and to  be glad of  them if he had
them, because  where the  powerful died,  wizardry was  about, selective  of its
victims  thus far,  but not  - perhaps  - exclusive  of them.  There was  Sjekso
Kinzan, who had been no one. Cappen wondered did such protection as he possessed
... protect or mark him; and as the lady and Mradhon Vis came past his table  by
the door -

A moment Cappen was looking up and the lady looked down at him, more familiar in
that stare  than he  would have  liked. The  prickling about  the amulet  became
strong indeed while he  stared, lost in those  dark eyes with a  sense of deadly
peril, of his whole life resting loose and endangered, as if some small nudge on
anyone's pan  might tumble  it. 'You're  beautiful,' he  murmured, because three
truths was the rule of the amulet if  it was to work at all - 'You're  dangerous
and foreign here.'

She lingered,  and reaching  down picked  up his  cup where  it sat;  lilted it,
sipped  and set  it  down again,  all  with an  eerie  hint of  humour or menace
flaunted at  him, at  him who  alone in  the room  but Mradhon  Vis -  or was he
exempt? - Alone of all the others,

Cappen stared back at her with his mind clear and with knowledge, with something
gut-wrenching telling him that everything about this woman was askew.

She smiled at him, a parting of the  lips on white teeth, a flash of dark  eyes,
an impression that she admired what she  saw... and all the fineness he kept  so
studiously, his elegance, different from others about him, his talents, his - if
streetwom - finery ... was suddenly  perilous to him, marking him out  among all
the rest. And most of all... she knew he resisted her.

She left then, swept out of the door which Mradhon Vis held open, a gust of wind
and  a sudden  thud of  the door  closing. Cappen  wanted wine...  but his  hand
stopped short of the cup she had just set down again, the metal she had had  her
lips to and the wine her mouth had tasted. He pushed back from the table and the
bench scraped loudly over the noise of the other patrons. He hesitated,  looking
at the door which led out to the  backways, not wanting to go out there, in  the
gathering dark.

But Mradhon Vis, linked with that, and Sjekso cold dead with no mark on him; and
Hanse outright disappeared, hunting Mradhon Vis, as all the Maze surmised ...

Hanse had involved himself in something which was likely to be the death of him,
and what concern that  was to Cappen Varra  was unclear to Cappen  himself, only
that he had drunk with Hanse of  late, with a short and lately successful  thief
and ruffian who had wanted -  almost pathetically - to acquire style,  who spent
most that came into his hands on the finer things, a cloak -oh gods! that cloak!
- Cappen's aristocratic  soul shuddered. But  of the unassuming  ruffians in the
lot, of what quality there was to be had in the Maze, in Hanse there existed  at
least the hankering after something else.

The business had marked Hanse down -  and now stopped and stared at himself.  It
was always safer, he reckoned, to walk at a thing than to have it walking up  at
his back - later and unforeseen. Cappen opened the door carefully, went out into
the backways, his hand  on his rapier hilt,  recalling that Sjekso had  used the
same door last night.  But there was only  the dark outside, amid  the litter of
old barrels and used bottles. The woman in black had vanished, and Vis with her,
vanished, and in what direction Cappen was in no wise certain.

Patience was rewarded. Vis,  by the gods, and  this Ischade ... in  company; and
Hanse crouched  lower in  the shadows  of the  alley, a  chill up  his back, his
fingers rubbing at the well-polished hilt of his left boot knife. That  promised
a revenge within his  own grasp: so Yorl  wanted the woman, and  if Yorl settled
with her, then Vis went in the same bargain. Hanse evened his breathing,  calmed
himself with wild hopes, first of getting out of this Yorl business and then  of
having Yorl to settle Vis  - the means by which  the street might be safe  again
for Hanse Shadowspawn. Report, Yorl had said, and by the gods, he was anxious to
have it done, if only they went to earth for the night...

They turned, not the  way he had anticipated,  towards the lodgings he  had been
watching, but the other way, towards the Serpentine. Hanse swore and slipped out
from his concealment, shadowed them  most carefully in their course  through the
debris of the alley and out on to the street. The moon was not yet up; the  only
light came from the city itself, a vague glimmering on a bank of fog towards the
harbour which diffused across the sky and promised one of those nights in  which
light spread through milky mist, from whatever sources - a thieves' night, and a
worse to come.

The pair tended on up the Serpentine, bold as dockside whores ... but odd sights
were common enough in the Maze by night, masks, cloaks, bright colours  flaunted
by night  when the  kindly dark  masked the  signs of  wear and their threadbare
condition. Man  and woman,  they were  only conspicuous  by their plainness, the
woman shrouded by  the robe  and hood  so that  she might  be instead some night
prowling priest with an unlikely and rough guard.

Hanse followed, in and out among the occasional walkers on the street, a kind of
stalking at which he had some skill.

*

... So, well, it answered,  at least, what Hanse had  been up to, and upset  all
Cappen Varra's calculations about Hanse as bluster and no threat. Cappen stopped
at the corner with the trio in view, glanced over his own shoulder with a  touch
of mad  humour and  the desperate  thought that  the whole  was getting  to be a
procession in the dark streets... the woman and Vis, and Hanse, and now  himself
but at least there was no fifth person that he could see, following him.

Hanse moved  off, slipping  casually down  the street  amid the ordinary traffic
with a skill Cappen  found amazing ... he  had never seen Hanse  work, not after
this fashion; had never particularly wanted to think at depth on the essence  of
the smallish thief, that  there was in fact  something more than the  temper and
the knives  and the  vanity which  made this  man dangerous.  Having seen it, he
reckoned to himself  that the only  sensible course for  him now was  to go back
into the Unicorn, work his way into whatever game might start - his current hope
of prosperity -  and forget Hanse  entirely, never minding  a moment when  Hanse
turned up  as stiff  and cold  as Sjekso  had, which  was assuredly where he was
headed at the moment. But perhaps it was the poetry of the matter, the suspicion
that  there might  be something  worth the  witnessing ...  perhaps it  was  the
assurance that  Hanse was  into far  more than  he knew,  and that  somewhere up
there, without untidy recourse to the rapier that swung at his side ... he might
overtake the revenge-bound lunatic  and talk him out  of it. Hanse-was the  only
likely ally in a situation of his  own; the woman had looked at him  back there,
and there was nagging at him an unwelcome vision, Hanse lying at the doorstep in
the morning and himself there the day after - macabre fancy it might be, but the
wind still blew up his back. There was only the matter of catching Hanse to stop
him,  and  that  was like  putting  one's  hands on  a  shadow.  Cappen was  not
accustomed to feel awkward in his moves,  looked down on the louts and  ne'er-do
wells who walked the Maze; possessed a grace surpassing most - in any situation.

But not in walking the Maze by dark and unseen. Hanse was in his  element,   and
Cappen  followed   him  artlessly,   down  the   length  of  the Serpentine, and
into territory  of the city at  large - where the  law came, and where a  wanted
thief was less   than safe. The   houses and shops   here were more  sturdy, and
finally magnificent, and those latter existed behind walls, and most with   bars
on  the windows.  Walkers  grew  scarce for  a  time,  and Cappen  hung  further
back,  afraid  that he  himself  might attract  the  notice of  the  pair  Hanse
followed ... which he earnestly did not want.

One street  and another,  and sometimes  a passage  through narrower  ways where
Cappen found Hanse  going more carefully,  where they four  were virtually alone
and where a false move could alert the pair ahead. Cappen stayed far back  then,
and once he thought he had lost them all... but a quick move around a comer  put
them all in view again. Hanse looked back in that instant, while Cappen tried to
stay inconspicuously part of a  stack of barrels, recalling Hanse's  knives, and
the murk of  the night. The  fog was coming  on and the  light played tricks;  a
light mist slicked  the stones ...  and still the  pair kept moving,  out of the
merchant  quarter and  into the  quarter of  the gods,  past the  square of  the
Promise  of  Heaven,  where  prostitutes,  bedraggled  in  the  mist,  sat their
accustomed benches like rain-soaked birds. - They swung past this place and into
the Avenue of  Temples itself; and  Cappen shrugged his  cloak about him  with a
genuinely wretched chill and marvelled at the trio ahead, who moved, pursued and
pursuer, with such a tireless purpose.

And then another alley, a sudden  move aside, which almost caught Hanse  himself
by surprise, near the magnificence of the dome of the temple of Ils and Shipri.

There Hanse tucked himself away into shadow and Cappen quite lost sight of  him,
among the buttresses and the statuary  of the out-thrust wing of the  temple ...
vanished.

Then the woman in black went out  into the street, ascended the plain centre  of
the steps of Ils and Shipri, towards the temple guards who warded the constantly
open doors in these uneasy times ...  four men and well armed, setting hands  on
hilts at  once as  they were  approached. The  woman cast  back her hood: swords
stayed undrawn, hands unmoving, numb as the patrons of the Unicorn.

Then another shadow began to move, from  the unwatched side of the steps, a  man
from out  of the  shadows, knife  in hand,  a swift  stalking... which  afforded
Cappen even less of comfort and  made him think that a wayward  minstrel perhaps
should have spent a safer, drier night in the Unicorn.

Follow, the wizard had said, and  Hanse pressed himself close against the  wall,
in the scant shadow  afforded by a bit  of brickwork, pressed himself  there and
watched in chill discomfort -blinked in  horror while it happened, and four  men
died  with swords  still in  sheath -  only the  last attempted  a defence,  and
Mradhon Vis cut  his throat in  one quick and  unmistakable move. Hanse  blinked
again and  discovered to  his consternation  that the  dark one,  the woman, was
gone, Mradhon  Vis crouching  now in  sole possession  of that bloody threshold.
Hanse fingered his belt knife like  a warding talisman; and wanted only  to stay
put, but all the while the icy cold at the pit of his neck, more biting than the
cold of the mist, reminded him what he was there to do - what other power  there
was to  offend. And  he waited,  reckoning every  small move  Mradhon Vis  made,
crouched over the bodies of the guards  - every small shifting of a man  busy at
corpse-looting, every glance about as some hardy passerby noised along the  main
avenue - but none saw, none came near.

The woman delayed about her business inside: it might have been a moment, or far
longer - time did tricks in  his mind. Hanse shifted uneasily, finally  gathered
his nerve, slipped  out of that  safe concealment and,  in the turning  of Vis's
head towards a  distraction on the  street... he eased  past a gap  in cover and
into the alley Vis and the woman had left, along the temple itself.

He reached the first of three  barred windows, and with utmost silence  took the
chance  and  seized the  bars,  hoisted himself  up  to see.  The  breath passed
silently over his teeth and his gut knotted up - a robber of wizards, Enas  Yorl
had said: and now a thief who preyed on gods.

That struck hard ... not that he darkened the doorway of his city gods with  his
presence or practised alms; but there  were territories, there were limits to  a
thief's audacity ... or it went hard for all. It was his craft, by the gods, his
art  the  woman  involved;  and  they were  old,  those  gods,  and  belonged in
Sanctuary, as  the Rankan  emperor's new  lot never  would. And  the woman,  the
foreigner, the  witch-thief, climbed  up to  the lap  of bearded Ils himself and
lifted the fabled necklace of Harmony from about the marble neck.

'Shalpa,' Hanse swore silently, and with chilling appropriate-ness - let himself
ever so carefully down from his vantage with one chill throbbing about his  neck
and another one travelling his backbone.  So Enas Yorl wanted a report.  And the
gods of old Ilsig were plundered by  a foreign witch while the Rankans moved  in
with their new lot of deities down  the block, with scaffolds and plans and  the
evident intent  of overshadowing  the gods  of Ilsig.  Prince Kithakadis and the
Rankan gods; and: 'recommended', Enas Yorl had said, sending a thief out to keep
watch on this god-thievery.

Hanse flattened himself back into his concealment with a sense of a world amiss,
of matters under way no mere thief  wanted part of. He had mixed in  Kitty-Rat's
connivances once to his  discomfort ... but now,  now it was possible  Enas Yorl
had a side of his own.

And hired help.

A footstep towards  the temple front  warned him: he  crouched low and  held his
breath - Ischade, rejoining Mradhon Vis.  'Done,' he heard her say; and  'here's
an end. Let's be gone, and quickly.'

Of course an outsider like  Mradhon Vis - of course  a man not Ilsig, who  would
have no scruples in killing Ilsig priests or robbing Ilsig gods.

In the  Emperor's hire?  Hanse wondered,  which was  far too  much and too clear
wondering for a thief;  the sweat was coursing  down his ribs despite  the misty
chill of  the air.  He was  not sure  at all  now what  side Yorl was ... and it
occurred to him to tear the amulet from his neck, drop it in the alley and run.

But how far? And how long? He  thought a second and chilling time of  the wizard
and his  connections; recalled  Sjekso; and  Kithakadis himself  ... a prince of
some small gratitude for services a thief had rendered; but more than  dangerous
if certain rumours started, that Yorl could spread ... effortlessly.

The pair headed back the way they had come, and he set out after them, seeing no
other course.

More and more bizarre, this midnight wandering. Cappen went rigid in his  hiding
place first as the  quarry passed, and then  as he caught sight  of Hanse again,
padding after them as before.

So there  was no  encounter. They  went out  and they  did murder and came back,
while Hanse  followed after  having seen  what Hanse  had seen  ... very  unlike
Hanse. Cappen suspected motives ill-defined, gave shape to nothing, only sure it
was something more than Hanse's private impulses that moved him now. He recalled
the way in which the  woman had passed a roomful  of patrons at the Unicorn,  in
which she and her companion went where they liked on the street, in which guards
died like slaughtered cattle...

The relief Cappen felt at seeing Hanse  mobile and not lying stiff in the  alley
further on,  gave way  to a  horror at  the silence  of all  that was  done, the
neatness  of it;  and a  subtle dread  of this  pacing about  the streets.   The
procession which had started to be humorous and might have become yet more so on
the return ... now assumed a thoroughly macabre character, such that he  forbore
to contact Hanse when he had, for one instant, the chance. Hanse's face too,  in
the small  glimpse he  had had  of it  as he  passed, had  the wan,  set look of
terror.

They went back very much the way they had come, and long before they came  close
to the  alley behind  the Unicorn,  Cappen had  a sure  idea that such was their
destination.


6

The pair of them went well enough where Hanse had figured they would go, in  the
alley behind the  Unicorn. He held  back as he  had been doing  and kept them in
sight... wished anew that he  had had the chance during  the day to creep up  to
Ischade's lodgings and have  a closer look, but  she had been there  most of the
day, and daylight and the  fact that it was the  second storey gave him no  easy
options. When  she had  left, towards  evening, he  had been  obliged to follow,
having no real idea  other motives and habitual  movements ... and well  that he
had followed, since this evening had turned out as it had.

But there was still, as  there had been, a presence  on his trail -and that  was
Cappen. Hanse knew that  much, had caught sight  of the minstrel out  of his own
territory and seen him  more than once on  streets where Cappen had  no business
being.

And who had hired Cappen?

It was not Cappen's custom to take  employment; he diced and he sang songs;  but
never this kind of work.  He was not suited for  ft. Enas Yorl could have  hired
better. Far better.

But this Ischade -

Hanse refused the idea. And yet constantly nagging at him in that small nook  of
his mind where he tucked  coincidences, was Cappen's presence that  morning. But
Cappen had been in the game too, like Mradhon Vis and Sjekso; and Cappen had get
off with some profit, as Cappen usually did.

Cappen bought him a drink; and that  was uncommon, that Cappen had that much  to
spare. But it was in  Cappen's nature to play the  lord and throw about what  he
had.

Cappen had ducked out of the Unicorn  a scant moment before the blind man  came,
having assured Hanse's presence there  with that drink... but that  then circled
the matter back to Yorl, where it made least sense.

Hanse forbore  another glance  over his  shoulder, reckoning  that even Cappen's
unskilled stalking might pick that up. He kept his attention towards the pair in
front of him, kept  moving where necessary -  watched them  reach the  steps and
both of  them start   up the  stairs towards  the lady's  lodgings, without  any
exchanged movement which might mean the passing of the loot.

Now ... now while the noise of the creaking stairs gave him sound to rely on  in
tracking them - he had  his chance, and took it,  a path he had marked  out that
afternoon. He carefully  set his hands  on a barrel,  levered himself up  into a
tuck and  sought the  next level  of debris,  noiselessly, one  after the other,
holding his breath as one foothold rocked and the next proved stable.

He made the roof as the pair made the door and opened it; he edged along it with
the greatest  care -  a wooden  roof at  least, and  not the  tiles some fancied
uptown. Even  now he  would have  preferred to  be rid  of the  boots and  to go
barefoot, as he had worked in  the days before prosperity, but he  figured there
was no  time for  such. He  edged his  way around  the ell  of the  roof on  wet
shingles and out on to that section over the room itself.

There was noise inside,  a sharp, animal sound  which lifted his nape  hairs and
made him less certain he wanted near  this place at all. He edged closer  to the
very  edge of  the eaves,  put his  head over,  viewing upside  down where  only
parchment covered the  window and formed  a scant barrier  to sounds and  voices
from inside. He heard footsteps clearly, heard a napping sound... and suddenly a
jolt and crack as an aged shingle snapped in two under his hand on the edge.  It
flung him overbalance, but he caught himself on his belly, spread-eagled on  the
roof. 'Hssst!' he heard from inside,  and he swore silently by appropriate  gods
and began to work his way hastily back from the vulnerable edge.

His hands, his  legs went numb;  his breath grew  short and the  talisman at his
throat became  a lump  of ice  and fire.  Magic, he  thought, some warding spell
flung his way ... he  dealt with wizards; and it  was a trap. He strove  to make
his limbs do what they well knew how to do: carefully he put a knee on a wet and
worn row of shingles on the slant.

One broke;  he slipped,  a rattling  loud career  down the  layered face  of the
shingles, his feet swinging  into empty air, his  wild final thought that  if he
fought the fall now  he might go head  downwards or on to  his back. He let  go,
slid, expecting  a dizzying  long drop  -the barrels,  maybe, the  debris of the
alley might break his fall and save his back and legs -

He hit  the edge  of the  porch unprepared,  a shock  that sent  him tumbling  a
further few  feet down  the stairs  backwards -  a ridiculous  lot of noise, his
battered mind was thinking through the pain, an embarrassing lot of noise...

And then the door was open above him, and he was lying sprawled on his back head
downwards on the narrow steps, looking  up through his feet at Mradhon  Vis, who
came with the metal flash of a dagger in his fist.

Hanse went for the belt knife, curled  up and threw it with all he  had: Mradhon
Vis staggered back with an oath, spun half about by the cast as Hanse twisted to
get up, his feet higher than his head  with a railing on his left and a  wall on
his right, which hindered more than helped.  He got as far as his knee  when the
bravo's foot caught him under the jaw  and hurled him back into the wall;  and a
knife followed - further humiliation -  up against his throat while Mradhon  Vis
grabbed his  hair and  twisted. Hanse  fought to  get loose;  he thought that he
struggled, but the messages were slow  getting to his limbs, and the  burning of
the amulet at his throat  distracted him with the  feeling that he was   choking
or was it the knife?

'Bring him up,'  a female voice  said from the  light of the  doorway; and Hanse
looked blurrily up into it, while a hand twisted into his hair jerked him up and
the dagger  shifted a  keen point  to his  back under  the ribs.  He went up the
stairs, and followed the blackrobed figure which retreated inside. There  seemed
little else at the moment that he could do, that he wanted to do, bruised as  he
was and with his wits leaden weighted. He blinked in the interior light,  stared
dully at the russet silks, at  the clutter of objects separately beautiful,  but
which lay disarrayed - like bones  in a nest, he thought distantly,  thinking of
something  predatory; and  he  jerked  at  the  sudden  racket  and  nutter   of
wings, a fluttering of  the lamplight in the   commotion of a  great  black bird
which sat on  its perch over against the wall.

'You can go,' the woman said, and Hanse's heart lifted for the instant.  'You've
been paid. Come back tomorrow.' And then he knew she spoke to Mradhon Vis.

'Tomorrow.'

'Then.'

'Is that all there is?  And leave this here?' A  jab at Hanse's back. 'I  took a
knife, woman; I've got a hole in my arm and you keep this and turn me out in the
wet, do you?'

'Out,' she said, in a lower tone.

And to Hanse's bewilderment the knife retreated. Hanse moved then, turned in the
instant, thinking of a quick stab from behind, his own hand to his wrist  sheath
... and he had the blade out, facing  Mradhon Vis - but somehow the rest of  the
move failed him, and he watched dully as Mradhon Vis turned away and sulked  his
way to the open door.

'Close it behind you,' the woman said, and Mradhon Vis did so, not slamming  it.
Hanse blinked,  and the  amulet at  his neck  hurt more  than any  bruise he had
taken. It burned, and he had no sense left to get rid of it.

Ischade smiled abstractedly at her guest,  left him so a moment, having  greater
business at hand. 'Peruz,' she said softly, shook back her hood, and taking from
her robes the necklace, she drew near the huge raptor ... or the guise it  wore.
With the greatest of care she slipped the necklace into a small case which  hung
from the side of the stand and fastened the case in its turn to the scaly leg of
the bird. Peruz stood still too,  uncommonly so, his great wings folded.  A last
time she teased the breast feathers, the softness about the neck - she had grown
fond of  the creature  in recent  weeks, as  anything that  shared her life. She
smiled at the regard of a cold topaz eye.

'Open the window,' she instructed her intruder/guest, and he moved, slowly, with
the look of a man caught in a bad dream. 'Open it,' and he did so. She  launched
Peruz and he  flew, with a  clap of wings,  a hurtling out  towards the dark,  a
lingering coolness of wind.

So he was sped. Her  employer had all he had  paid to have - and  well paid. And
she was alone. She  let go her mental  grip on the ruffian  ... and at once  his
face showed panic and he whipped up the knife he had in hand. She stopped  that.
He looked confused, as  if he had quite  forgotten what the dagger  was doing in
his hand. And that effort would cost her, come the morning: on the morrow  would
be a  fearful headache  and a  mortal lassitude,  so that  she would  want to do
nothing for days but drowse. But now the blood was still quick in her veins, the
excitement lingered, and in the threat of ennui and solitude which followed  any
completed  task ...  she felt  another kind  of excitement,  and looked  on  her
uninvited visitor knowing,  quite knowing that  at such times  she was mad,  and
what it cost to cure such madness for the time...

Attractive. Her tastes were broad, but in that curiously com-partmented mind  of
hers, it pleased her ... the mission done ... that there was room for Mradhon to
go. Here  stood instead  an unmissable  someone -  he had  all the marks of that
condition. It was justice owed her for her pains ... twice as sweet when it  all
came together just as it did  now, her satisfaction and the last  untidy threads
of a business, tied together and nipped short.

She held out her  hand and came closer,  feeling that sweet/sad warmth  that sex
set into her blood ... and had felt it, at every weakening moment, from the time
she had robbed the  wrong wizard and left  him living. In the  morning she would
even feel some torment for it,  a tangled regret: the handsome ones  always left
her with that,  a sense of  beauty wasted. But  for the moment  reason was quite
gone.

And there had been so many before.

Hanse still held the knife and could  not feel it; then heard the distant  shock
it made hitting the floor. There was no pain of the bruises, no sensation but of
warmth and of  the woman's nearness,  her dark eyes  regarding him, her  perfume
enveloping him. And the amulet at his throat, which gave off a bitter cold: that
was the one last focus  of his discomfort. She put  her arms about his neck  and
her fingers found the chain. 'You don't want this,' she said, lifting it ever so
gently over his head. He  heard it fall, far, far  away. Truth, he did not  want
it. He wanted her.  It came to him  that this was the  way that Sjekso had gone,
before he had  ended  up dead  and cold outside  the Unicorn,  and  it failed to
matter. Her lips pressed his and oh, gods, he wanted her.

The floor wavered, and a wind swept in, laden with sweetish incense...

'Pardon me,' Enas Yorl said, and  the couple on the verge of  further intimacies
broke apart,  the woman  staring at  him wide-eyed  and Shadowspawn  with a hazy
desperation. The russet silks in the room still billowed with the draught he had
set up.

'Who are  you?' the  woman Ischade  asked, and  at once  Enas Yorl  felt a small
trial of his defences, which he shrugged  off. Ischade's expression at once took
on a certain wariness.

'Let him go,' Enas Yorl said with a back-handed wave towards Shadowspawn.  'He's
admirably discreet. And I'd take it kindly. - Go on, Shadowspawn. Now. Quickly.'

Shadowspawn edged  towards the  door, hesitated  there, with  a look of violated
sanity.

'Out,' Enas Yorl said.

The thief spun about and opened the door, a fresh gust of wind.

And fled.

Hanse hit the stairs running, hardly pausing for the steps, never saw the figure
loom up at the bottom until he was headed straight down at the knife that  aimed
at his gut.

He knocked the attacking blade aside  and grabbed for arms or clothes,  whatever
he could hold, fell,  in the shock of  the collision, tumbled with  the attacker
and the blade, and lost  his purchase in the impact  with the ground. He hit  on
his back, desperately got a grip on the descending knife hand with Mradhon Vis's
face coming down on him with a weight of body a third again his own. It was  his
left hand he used  on the descending arm,  left hand, knife hand,  involved with
that,  and  his battered  muscles  shook under  the  strain while  he  plied his
unaccustomed right hand trying to reach the knife strapped to his leg. His  left
arm was buckling.

Suddenly Vis's weight shifted rightwards and came down on him, pinning his other
arm  -  a  limp weight,  and  in  the space  Vis's  grimace  had occupied,  most
improbably, Cappen Varra stood with a barrel stave in both his hands.

'Did you want rescue?' Cappen asked civilly. 'Or is it all some new diversion?'

Hanse swore, kicked and writhed his  way from under Vis's inert weight  and went
for his dagger in fright. Cappen checked his arm and the heat of anger went  out
of him, leaving only a sickly shiver. 'Hang you,' he said feebly, 'couldn't  you
have hit him easier and given me a go?'

And then he realized the source of the light which was streaming down on them by
way of the stairs, and  that above them was the  open door in which two  wizards
met. 'Gods,' he muttered, and scrambling up, grabbed Cappen by the arm.

And ran, for very life.

'Not my doing.'

'No?' Enas Yorl felt his shoulders expand ever so slightly, his features  shift,
and in his pride he  refused to look down at  his hands to know. Perhaps  it was
not too terrible, this form: Ischade's eyes flickered, but seemed unappalled.

'None of the killings  that interest you,' she  said, 'are mine. They're  not my
style. I trust I'm somewhat known in the craft. As you are, Enas Yorl.'

He gave a small bow. 'I have some unwilling distinction.'

'The story's known.'

'Ah.' Again he felt the shift, a wave of terror. He bent down and picked up  the
amulet which lay on the floor, saw his hand covered with a faint opalescence  of
scales. Then the scales  faded and left only  a young and shapely  male hand. He
tucked the amulet  into his robes  and straightened, looked  at Ischade somewhat
more calmly. 'So you're not the one. I  don't ask you then who hired you. I  can
guess, knowing what you did - ah,  I do know. And by  morning the  priests  will
have discovered   the loss  and  made  some substitution  - the   wars of  gods,
after all,  follow  politics,  don't they?   And what  matter a  riot or  two in
Sanctuary? It interests neither of us.'

'Then what is your interest?'

'How did they die, Ischade - your lovers? Do you know? Or don't you wonder?'

'Your curiosity - has it some specific grievance?'

'Ah, no grievance at all. I only ask.'

'I do  nothing. The  fault's their  own ...  their luck,  a heart too fragile, a
fall... who am I to know? They're well when they leave me, that's the truth.'

'But they're dead by morning, every one.'

She shrugged. 'You should understand. I have nothing to do with it.'

'Ah, indeed we have misfortunes in common. I know. And when I knew you'd come to
Sanctuary -'

'It took me some  few days to acclimate  myself; I trust I  didn't inconvenience
you ... and that we'll avoid each other in future.'

'Ischade: how am I - presently?'

She tilted back her head  and looked, blinked uncertainly. 'Younger,'  she said.
'And quite handsome, really. Far unlike what I've heard.'

'So? Then you can look at me? I see that you can. And not many do.'

'I have business,' she declared, liking all  of this less and less. She was  not
accustomed to feel fear ... hunted the sensation in the alleys of cities in  the
hope of discovering  a measure of  life. But this  was far from  comfortable. 'I
have to be aboutit.'

'What, some new employer?*

'Not killing wizards, if that's your worry. My business is private, and it  need
not intrude on yours.'

'And if I engaged you?'

'In what regard?'

'To spend one night with me.'

'You're mad.'

'I might become so - I don't age, you see. And that's the difficulty.'

'You're not afraid? You're looking to die? Is that the cause of all this?'

'Ah, I'm afraid  at times. At  times like this,  when the shape  is good. But it
doesn't last.  There are  other times...  and they  come. And  I never grow old,
Ischade. I can't detect it if I do. And that frightens me.'

She regarded him  askance ... he  was handsome, very.  She wondered if  this had
been his first shape, when he was young, that brought his trouble on him. It was
a shape fine enough to have done that. The eyes were beautiful, full of pain. So
many of her young men of the streets  were full of that pain. It touched her  as
nothing else could.

'How long has it been,' he  asked, setting his hands on her  shoulders, touching
ever so gently, 'since you had a  lover worth the name? And how long  since I've
had hope of anything? We might be each other's answer, Ischade. If I should die,
then that's one way out for me; or  if I don't - then you're not doomed  to lose
them all, after  all, are you,  Ischade? Some of  my forms might  not be to your
taste, but  others -1  have infinite  variety, Ischade.  And no  dread of you at
all.'

'For this you hunted me down? That was it, wasn't it - the amulet, a way to draw
yourself to me -'

'It costs you nothing. No harm. So small a thing for you, Ischade...'

It tempted. He was beautiful, this  moment, this one moment, and the  nights and
the years were long.

And then the other chance occurred to her and she shivered, who had not shivered
in years. 'No. No. Maybe you're set  to die, but I'm not. No. Oppose  two curses
the like of ours - half the city could go in that shock, not to mention you  and
me. The chance of that, the merest chance - No. I'm not done living...'

He frowned,  drew himself  up with  the least  tremor about  his lips, a look of
panic. 'Ischade...'  The voice  began to  change, and  of a  sudden the features
starting with   the mouth  wavered, as  if the  strain  had  been too  much, too
long and  dearly held.  The scales   were back; and 'No,' he cried,  and plunged
his face into  hands which were  not quite still  hands. The draperies billowed,
the very air rippled, and 'No...' the air sighed after  him, a vanishing moan, a
sob.

A second time she shivered, and  looked about her, distracted, but he  was quite
gone.

So, well, she thought.  He had had his  answer, once for all.  Her business took
her here and there about the  empire, but she discovered a liking  for Sanctuary
as for  no other  place she  had known  ... and  it was  well that Yorl took his
answer, and that it  was settled. New tasks  might come. But at  that moment she
thought of the river  house. This lodging was  too well known for  the time; and
she might walk to the river... might meet someone - along the way.

The wine splashed into the cup and such was Hanse's state of mind that he  never
looked to see who served, only hoisted the cup and drank a mouthful.

'That's good,' he said; and Cappen Varra across the table in the Unicorn watched
him shake off  the ghosts and  lifted his own  cup, thinking ruefully  of a song
abandoned,  a tale  best not  sung at  all, even  in the  safe confines  of  the
Unicorn. The city would be full of  questions tomorrow, and it was well to  know
nothing at all... as he was sure Hanse planned to know least of all.

'A game,' Cappen proposed.

'No. No  dicing tonight.'  Hanse dug  into his  purse and  came up with a silver
round, laid it carefully on the table. 'That's for another pitcher when this  is
done. And for a roof tonight.'

Cappen poured again, topping off the  cup - a wonder, that Hanse  bought drinks.
Hanse flinging money about as if he wished to be rid of it.

'Tomorrow on the game,' Cappen said, in hope.

'Tomorrow,' Hanse said, and lifted the cup. 

*

Blind Darous poured, the cup held just so for his finger to feel the cool of the
liquid ...  measured it  carefully and  extended the  filled goblet  towards his
seated master. The breathing was hoarse tonight. A hand took the stem of the cup
most delicately, not touching  his fingers at all,  for which Darous was  deeply
grateful.

And  towards  the  river, a  house  apart  from others  ...  which  seemed oddly
discontinuous from its surrounds: in squalor,  it had a garden, and a  wall; and
yet had a quaint decrepitude. Mradhon Vis stood outside the gate - sore and much
out of sorts. She was there: she had found herself a young man much the image of
Sjekso, who presently held the warmth and the light inside.

He had walked that far.

And finally, knowing what he knew, he did the harder thing, and walked away.



A GIFT IN PARTING

by Robert Asprin

The sun was  a full two  handspans above the  horizon when Hort  appeared on the
Sanctuary docks; early in the day but late by fishermen's standard. The  youth's
eyes squinted painfully  at the unaccustomed  brightness of the  morning sun. He
fervently  wished he  were home  in bed  ... or  in someone  else's bed  ...  or
anywhere but here. Still, he had promised his mother he would help the Old . Man
this morning. While  his upbringing made  it unthinkable to  break that promise,
his stubbornness required that he demonstrate his protest by being late.

Though he had roamed  these docks since early  childhood and knew them  to be as
scrupulously clean  as possible,  Hort still  chose his  path carefully to avoid
brushing his clothes against anything. Of  late he had been much more  attentive
to his personal appearance; this morning he had discovered he no longer had  any
old clothes suitable for the boat.  While he realized the futility of  trying to
preserve  his current  garb through  an entire  day's work  in the  boat,  newly
acquired habits demanded he try to minimize the damage.

The  Old Man  was waiting  for him,  sitting on  the overturned  boat like  some
stately sea-bird sleeping off a full  belly. The knife in his hand  caressed the
stray piece of wood he held with a slow, rhythmic cadence. With each pass of the
blade a long curl  of wood fell to  join the pile at  his feet. The size  of the
pile was mute testament to how long the Old Man had been waiting.

Strange, but Hort  had always thought  of him as  the Old Man,  never as Father.
Even the men who  had fished these waters  with him since their  shared boyhoods
called him Old Man rather than Panit. He  wasn't really old, though his face was
deceptive.  Wrinkled and  crisscrossed by   weather lines,  the Old  Man's  face
looked  like one  of those  red clay  riverbeds one  saw in  the desert   beyond
Sanctuary: parched, cracked, waiting for rain that would never fall.

No, that was wrong. The Old Man  didn't look like the desert. The Old  Man would
have  nothing  in common  with  such a  large  accumulation of  dirt.  He was  a
fisherman, a creature of the sea and as  much a part of the sea as one  of those
weathered rocks that punctuated the harbour.

The old man looked up at his  son's approach then tet his attention settle  back
on the whittling.

'I'm here,' Hort announced unnecessarily, adding, 'sorry I'm late.'

He cursed himself silently when that remark slipped out. He had been  determined
not to apologize,  no matter what  the Old Man  said, but when  the Old Man said
nothing...

His father rose to his feet unhurriedly, replacing his knife in its sheath  with
a gesture made smooth and unconscious by years of repetition.

'Give me a hand with this,' he said, bending to grasp one end of the boat.

Just that. No acceptance of the apology. No angry reproach. It was as if he  had
expected his reluctant assistant would be late.

Hort fumed about this as he grunted and heaved, helping to right the small  boat
and set it safely in the water. His annoyance with the whole situation was  such
that he was seated in the boat, accepting the oars as they were passed down from
the dock, before he remembered that his father had been launching this craft for
years without assistance. His son's inexpert  hands could not have been a  help,
only a hindrance.

Spurred by this new  irritation, Hort let the  stem of the boat  drift away from
the dock as his father prepared to board. The petty gesture was in vain. The Old
Man stepped into  the boat, stretching  his leg across  the water  with  no more
thought than a  merchant gives his keys in their locks.

'Row that way,' came the order to his son.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Hort bent to the task.

The old rhythms returned to him in mercifully few strokes. Once he had been glad
to row his father's boat. He had  been proud when he had grown enough  to handle
the oars himself. No longer  a young child to be  guarded by his mother, he  had
basked  in  the status  of  the Old  Man's  boy. His  playmates  had envied  his
association with the only fisherman on the dock who could consistently trap  the
elusive Nya - the small schooling fish whose sweet flesh brought top price  each
afternoon after the catch was brought in.

Of course, that  had been a  long time ago.  He'd wanted to  learn about the Nya
then - he knew less now; his memories had faded.

As Hort had grown, so had his world. He learned that away from the docks no  one
knew of the Old Man, nor did  they care. To the normal citizens of  Sanctuary he
was  just another  fisherman and  fishermen did  not stand  high in  the  social
structure of the town. Fishermen weren't rich, nor did they have the ear of  the
local  aristocrats. Their  clothes weren't  colourful like  the S'danzo's.  They
weren't feared like the soldiers or mercenaries.

And they smelled.

Hort had often disputed this latter point with the street urchins away from  the
docks  until bloody  noses, black  eyes and  bruises taught  him that  fishermen
weren't good fighters, either. Besides, they did smell.

Retreating to the  safety of the  dock community Hort  found that he  viewed the
culture which  had raised  him with  a blend  of scorn  and bitterness. The only
people who  respected fishermen  were other  fishermen. Many  of his old friends
were drifting away - finding new lives in the crowds and excitement of the  city
proper.  Those that  remained were  dull youths  who found  reassurance in   the
unchanging traditions of the fish-craft  and who were already beginning  to look
like their fathers.

As his  loneliness grew,  it was  natural that  Hort used  his money  to buy new
clothes  which he   bundled and  hid away  from the   fish-tainted cottage  they
called home.  He scrubbed  himself vigorously  with sand,  dressed and  tried to
blend with the townsfolk.

He found the citizens  remarkably pleasant once he  had removed the mark  of the
fishing community. They were  most helpful in teaching  him what to do  with his
money. He acquired a  circle of friends and  spent more and more  time away from
home until...

'Your mother tells me you're leaving.'

The Old Man's sudden statement startled Hort, jerking him rudely from his mental
wanderings. In a flash  he realized he had  been caught in the  trap his friends
had warned him about. Alone  in the boat with his  father he would be a  captive
audience until tile tide changed. Now  he'd hear the anger, the accusations  and
finally the pleading.

Above all Hort dreaded the pleading. While they had had their differences in the
past, he still held a lingering respect for his father, a respect he knew  would
die if the Old Man were reduced to whining and begging.

'You've said  it yourself  a hundred  times. Old  Man,' Hort  pointed out with a
shrug, 'not everyone was meant to be a fisherman.'

It came  out harsher  than he  had intended,  but Hort  let it  go without  more
explanations. Perhaps his father's anger would  be stirred to a point where  the
conversation would be terminated prior to the litanies of his obligations to his
family and tradition.

'Do you think you can earn a  living in Sanctuary?' the Old Man asked,  ignoring
his son's baiting.

'We ...  I won't  be in  Sanctuary,' Hort  announced carefully.  Even his mother
hadn't possessed this last bit of knowledge. "There's a caravan forming in town.
In four days it leaves  for the capital. My friends  and I have been invited  to
travel with it.'

'The capital?' Panit nodded slowly. 'And what will you do in Ranke?'

'I don't know yet,' his son admitted, 'but there are ten jobs in Ranke for every
one in Sanctuary.'

The Old  Man digested  this in  silence. 'What  will you  use for  money on this
trip?' he asked finally.

'I had hoped ... There's supposed to be a tradition in our family, isn't  there?
When a son  leaves home his  father gives him  a parting gift.  I know you don't
have  much, but...'  Hort stopped;  the Old  Man was  shaking his  head in  slow
negation.

'We have less than you think,' he  said sadly. 'I said nothing before, but  your
fine clothes, there, have tapped our savings; the fishing's been bad.'

'If you won't give me anything, just say so!' Hort exploded angrily. 'You  don't
have to rationalize it with a long tale of woe.'

'I'll give you a gift,' the Old Man assured him. 'I only wanted to warn you that
it probably would not be money. More to the left.'

'I don't need your money,' the youth growled, adjusting his stroke. 'My  friends
have offered to loan me the necessary  funds. I just thought it would be  better
not to start my new life in debt.'

'That's wise,' Panit agreed. 'Slow now.'

Hort glanced over  his shoulder for  a bearing then  straightened with surprise.
His oars trailed loose in the water.

'There's only one float!' he announced in dumb surprise.

'That's right,' the  Old Man nodded.  'It's nice to  know you haven't  forgotten
your numbers.'

'But one float means...'

'One trap,'  Panit agreed.  'Right again.  I told  you fishing  was bad.  Still,
having come all this way, I would like to see what is in my one trap.'

The Old Man's  dry sarcasm was  lost on his  son. Hort's mind  was racing as  he
reflexively manoeuvred the boat into position by the float.

One trap! The Old Man normally worked fifteen to twenty traps; the exact  number
always varied from  day to day  according to his  instincts, but never  had Hort
known him to set  less than ten traps.  Of course the Nya  were an unpredictable
fish whose movements confounded everyone save Panit. That is - they came readily
to  the   trap  if  the  trap   happened  to  be  near   them  in  their  random
wanderings.

One trap! Perhaps  the schools were  feeding elsewhere; that  sometimes happened
with any fish. But then the  fishermen would simply switch to a  different catch
until their mainstay returned. If the Old Man were less proud of his ability and
reputation he could do the same...

'Old Man!' The  exclamation burst from  Hort's lips involuntarily  as he scanned
the horizon.

'What is it?' Panit asked, pausing as he hauled his trap from the depths.

'Where are the other boats?'

The  Old  Man  returned his  attention  to  the trap.  'On  the  dock,' he  said
brusquely. 'You walked past them this morning.'

Open-mouthed,  Hort  let  his memory  roam  back  over the  docks.  He  had been
preoccupied with his  own problems, but...  yes! there-had been  a lot of  boats
lying on the dock.

'All of them?' he asked, bewildered. 'You mean we're the only boat out today?'

'That's right.'

'But why?'

'Just a minute ... here!' Panit secured a handhold on the trap and heaved it  on
to the boat. 'Here's why.'

The trap was ruined. Most of the wooden slats which formed its sides were  caved
in and those that weren't dangled loose. If Hort hadn't been expecting to see  a
Nya trap he wouldn't  have recognized this as  something other than a  tangle of
scrap-wood.

'It's been like this for over a week!' the Old Man snarled with sudden ferocity.
'Traps smashed, nets torn. That's why those who call themselves fishermen  cower
on the land instead  of manning their boats!'  He spat noisily over  the side of
the boat.

Was it also why his mother had insisted Hort give the Old Man a hand?

'Row for the docks, boy. Fishermen! They should fish in buckets where it's safe!
Bah!'

Awed by the  Old Man's anger,  Hort turned the  boat towards the  shore. 'What's
doing it?' he asked.

There was silence as Panit stared off to the sea. For a moment Hort thought  his
question had gone unheard and was about  to repeat it. Then he saw how  deep the
wrinkles on his father's face had become.

'I don't know,' the Old Man murmured finally. 'Two weeks ago I would have said I
knew every creature that swam or crawled in these waters. Today ... I just don't
know.'

'Have you reported this to the soldiers?'

'Soldiers? Is  that what  you've learned  from your  fancy friends?  Run to  the
soldiers?' Panit fairly trembled with rage.  'What do soldiers know of the  sea?
Eh? What do you want them to do? Stand on the shore and wave their swords at the
water? Order the monster to go away?  Collect a tax from it? Yes! That's  it! If
the soldiers declare a monster tax maybe it'll swim away to keep from being bled
dry like the rest of us! Soldiers!'

The Old Man spat again and lapsed  into a silence that Hort was loath  to break.
Instead he spent  the balance of  the return journey  mentally speculating about
the trap-crushing monster. In  a way he knew  it was futile; sharper  minds than
his,  the Old  Man's for  example, had   tried and  failed to  come up  with  an
explanation. There wasn't much chance  he'd stumble upon it. Still,  it occupied
his mind until they reached the dock. Only when the boat had been turned over in
the late morning sun did Hort venture to reopen the conversation.

'Are we through for the day?' he asked. 'Can I go now?'

'You can,'  the Old  Man replied,  turning a  blank expression  to his  son. 'Of
course, if you  do it might  cause problems. The  way it is  now, if your mother
asks me: "Did you take the boat out  today?" I can say yes. If you stay  with me
and she asks: "Did you spend the day with the Old Man?" you can say yes. If,  on
the other hand,  you wander off  on your own,  you'll have to  say "no" when she
asks and we'll both have to explain ourselves to her.'

This startled Hort almost more than the discovery of an unknown monster loose in
the. fishing grounds. He had never suspected the Old Man  was capable of  hiding
his activities from his  wife with such a calculated  web of half-truths.  Close
on the   heels of  his  shock  came a  wave of  intense curiosity  regarding his
father's plans for a large block of time about which he did not want to tell his
wife.

'I'll stay,' Hort said with forced casualness. 'What do we do now?'   •

'First,' the Old  Man announced as  he headed off  down the dock,  'we visit the
Wine Barrel.'

The Wine Barrel was  a rickety wharf-side tavern  favoured by the fishermen  and
therefore shunned by everyone else. Knowing his father to be a nondrinker,  Hort
doubted the Old Man had  ever before been inside the  place, yet he led the  way
into the shadowed interior with a firm and confident step.

They were all there: Terci, Omat, Varies; all the fishermen Hort had known since
childhood  plus many  he did  not recognize.  Even Haron,  the only  woman  ever
accepted by  the fishermen,  was there,  though her  round, fleshy and weathered
face was scarcely different from the men's.

'Hey, Old Man? You finally given up?'

'There's an extra seat here.'

'Some wine for the Old Man!'

'One more trap-wrecked fisherman!'

Panit ignored the cries which erupted from various spots in the shadowed room at
his  entrance.  He held  his  stride until  he  reached the  large  table custom
reserved for the eldest fisherfolk.

'I told  you, you'd  be here  eventually,' Omat  greeted him,  pushing the extra
bench out with his long, thin leg. 'Now, who's a coward?'

The Old Man acknowledged  neither the jibe nor  the bench, leaning on  the table
with both hands to address the veterans.  'I only came to ask one question,'  he
hissed. 'Are all of you, or any  of you, planning to do anything about  whatever
it is that's driven you from the sea?'

To a man, the fishermen moved their gazes elsewhere.

'What can we do?' Terci scowled. 'We don't even know what's out there. Maybe  it
will move on...'

'... And maybe it won't,' the  Old Man concluded angrily. 'I should  have known.
Scared men  don't think;  they hide.  Well, I've  never been  one to  sit around
waiting for my problems to go away on their own. Not planning to change now.'

He kicked the  empty bench away  and turned towards  the door only  to find Hort
blocking his way.

'What are you going to do?' Terci called after him.

'I'm going to find an answer!' the Old Man announced, drilling the room with his
scorn. 'And I'll find it  where I've always found answers  - in the sea; not  at
the bottom of a wine-cup.'

With that he strode out of the door. Hort started to follow when someone  called
his name and he turned back.

'I thought that  was you under  those city-clothes,' Omat  said without rancour.
'Watch over him, boy. He's a little crazy and crazy people sometimes get  killed
before they get sane.'

There was a low  murmur of assent from  those around the table.  Hort nodded and
hurried after his father. The Old Man was waiting for him outside the door.

'Fools!' he raged. 'No money for a  week and they sit drinking what little  they
have left. Pah!'

'What do we do now. Old Man?'

Panit looked around then snatched up a Nya trap from a stack on the dock. 'We'll
need this,' he said, almost to himself.

'Isn't that one ofTerci's traps?' Hort asked cautiously.

'He isn't  using it,  is he?'  the Old  Man shot  back. 'And  besides we're only
borrowing it.  Now, you're  supposed to  know this  town -  where's the  nearest
blacksmith?'

'The nearest? Well, there's a mender in the Bazaar, but the best ones are...'

The Old  Man was  off, striding  purposefully down  (he street,  leaving Hort to
hurry after him.

It wasn't a market-day; the Bazaar  was still sleepy with many stalls  unopened.
It was not  necessary for Hort  to lead the  way as the  sharp, ringing notes of
hammer striking anvil were easily heard over the slow-moving shoppers. The  dark
giant plying the hammer  glanced at them as  they approached, but continued  his
work.

'Are you the smith?' Panit asked.

This earned them another, longer, look but no words. Hort realized the  question
had been  ridiculous. A  few more  strikes and  the giant  set his hammer aside,
turning his full attention to his new customers.

'I need a Nya trap. One of these.' The Old Man thrust thetrap at the smith.

The smith glanced at the trap,  then shook his head. 'Smith; not  carpenter,' he
proclaimed, already reaching for his hammer.

'I know that!' the Old Man barked. 'I want this trap made out of metal.'

The giant stopped and stared at his customers again, then he picked up the  trap
and examined it.

'And I'll need it today - by sundown.'

The smith set the trap down carefully. 'Two silvers,' he said firmly.

'Two!' the  Old Man  snorted. 'Do  you think  you're dealing  with the Kitty-Kat
himself? One.'

'Two,' the smith insisted.

'Dubro!'

They all  turned to  face the  small woman  who had  emerged from  the enclosure
behind the forge.

'Do it for one,' she said quietly. 'He needs it.'

She and the smith locked  eyes in a battle of  wills, then the giant nodded  and
turned away from his wife.

'S'danzo?' the Old Man asked before the woman disappeared into the darkness from
which she'd come.

'Half.'

'You've got the sight?'

'A bit,' she admitted. 'I see your plan is unselfish but dangerous. I do not see
the outcome - except that you must have Dubro's help to succeed.'

'You'll bless the trap?'

The S'danzo shook her head. 'I'm a  seer, not  a priest. I'll make you  a symbol
the Lance of Ships from our cards - to put on the trap. It marks good fortune in
sea-battles; it might help you.'

'Could I see the card?' the Old Man asked.

The woman disappeared and returned a  few moments later bearing the card,  which
she held for Panit. Looking over his father's shoulder, Hort saw a crudely drawn
picture of a whale with a metal-sheathed horn proceeding from its head.

'A good  card,' the  Old Man  nodded. 'For  what you  offer -  I'll pay  the two
silvers.' She smiled  and returned to  the darkness. Dubro  stepped forward with
his palm extended. 'When I pick up the trap,' Panit insisted. 'You needn't fear.
I won't leave it to gather dust.'

The giant frowned, nodded and turned back to his work.

'What are you planning?' Hort demanded as his father started off again.  'What's
this about a sea-battle?'

'All fishing is sea-battle,' the Old Man shrugged.

'But, two silvers? Where are you going to get that kind of money after what  you
said in the boat this morning?'

'We'll see to that now.'

Hort  realized  they weren't  returning  to town  but  heading westward  to  the
Downwinders' hovels. The Downwinders or  ... 'Jubal?' he exclaimed. 'How're  you
going to get  money from him?  Are you going  to sell him  information about the
monster?'

'I'm a fisherman,  not a spy,'  the Old Man  retorted, 'and the  problems of the
fishermen are no concern of the land.'

'But...' Hort  began then  lapsed into  silence. If  his father  was going to be
closed-mouthed about  his plans,  no amount  of browbeating  was likely to budge
him.

Upon reaching Jubal's estate, Hort was amazed at the ease with which the Old Man
handled the slaver's  underlings who routinely  challenged his entry.  Though it
was well known that Jubal  employed notorious cut-throats and murderers  who hid
their features behind  blue-hawk masks, Panit  was unawed by  their arrogance or
their arms.

'What do you two want here?' the grizzled gate-keeper barked.

'We came to talk to Jubal,' the Old Man retorted.

'Is he expecting you?'

'I need an appointment to speak with a slaver?*

'What business could an old fisherman have with a slaver?'

'If you were to know, I'd tell you. I want to see Jubal.'

'I can't just...'

'You ask too many questions. Does he know you ask so many questions?'

That final question of the Old Man's cowed the retainer, confirming Hort's  town
refined suspicions  that most  of the  slaver's business  was covert rather than
overt.

They were finally ushered into a large  room dominated by a huge, almost  throne
like, chair  at one  end. They  had been  waiting only  a few moments when Jubal
entered, belting a dressing-gown over his muscular, ebony limbs.

'I should have known  it was you. Old  Man,' the slaver said  with a half-smile.
'No other fisherman could bluff his way past my guards so easily.'

'I know  you prefer  money to  sleep,' the  Old Man  shrugged. 'Your men know it
too.'

'True enough,' Jubal laughed.  'So, what brings you  this far from the  docks so
early in the day?'

'For some  the day's  over,' Panit  commented dryly.  'I need  money: six silver
pieces. I'm offering my stall on the wharf.'          -

Hort couldn't believe what  he was hearing. He  opened his mouth to  speak, then
caught himself. He had been raised to know better than to interrupt his father's
business. His movement was not lost on Jubal, however.

'You intrigue me. Old Man,' the slaver mused.  'Why should I want to buy a  fish
stall at any price?'

'Because the wharf's the only place your ears don't hear,' Panit smiled tightly.
'You send your spies in - but we don't talk to outsiders. To hear the wharf  you
must be on the wharf- I offer you a place on the wharf.'

'True enough,' Jubal agreed. 'I hardly  expected the opportunity to fall my  way
like ripe fruit...'.,..•.

'Two conditions,' the Old Man interrupted; 'First; four weeks before you own  my
stall. If I repay the money - you don't own my stall...'

'All right,' the slaver nodded, 'but...'

'Second: anything happens to me these next four weeks you take care of my  wife.
It's not charity; she knows the wharf and the Nya - she's worth a fair wage.'

Jubal studied the  Old Man a  moment through hooded  eyes. 'Very well,'  he said
finally, 'but I sense there  is much you are not  telling me.' He left the  room
and returned with the  silver coins which rattled  lightly in his immense  palm.
'Tell me this. Old Man,' he asked suspiciously, 'all these terms - why don't you
just ask for a loan?'

'I've never borrowed in my life,' Panit scowled, 'and won't start now. I pay  as
I go - if I don't have enough I do without or I sell what I must.'

'Suit yourself,' the slaver shrugged, handing over the coins. 'I'll be expecting
to see you in thirty days.'

'Or before.'

The silence between father and son  was almost habitual and lasted nearly  until
they had reached  the town again.  Strangely, it was  the Old Man  who broke the
silence first.

'You're being quiet, boy,' he said.

'Of course,' Hort exploded. 'There's nothing  to say. You order things we  can't
pay for, sell your life-work to  the biggest crook in Sanctuary and  then wonder
why I'm quiet. I know you don't confide in me - but Jubal! Of all the people  in
town ... And that talk about conditions! What makes you think he'll stand by any
of them? You don't trust soldiers but you trust Jubal!'

'He can be trusted,' the Old Man answered softly. 'He's a hard one when he's got
the upper hand - but he stands by his word.'

'You've dealt with him before? Nothing can surprise me now,' Hort grumbled.

'Good,' his father nodded, 'then you'll take me to the Vulgar Unicorn?'

'The Vulgar Unicorn!' He was surprised.

'That's right. Don't you know where it is?'

'I know it's in the Maze somewhere, but I've never been there.'

'Let's go.'

'Are you  sure you  want the  Vulgar Unicorn,  Old Man?'  Hort pressed. 'I don't
think a fisherman's ever set foot in there. The people who drink at the  Unicorn
are mercenaries, cut-throats and a few thieves thrown in for good measure.'

'So they say,'  the Old Man  nodded. 'Wouldn't be  going there if  they weren't.
Now, you leading or not?'

All conversation stopped as they  entered that infamous tavern. As  he struggled
to see in the darkness, Hort could feel the eyes of the room on his, sizing them
up, deciding if he was a challenge or a victim.

'Are you gentlemen looking for someone?' The bartender's tone implied he  didn't
think they should stay for a drink.

'I want  some fighting  men,' the  Old Man  announced. 'I've  heard this  is the
place.'

'You heard right,' the bartender nodded, suddenly a bit more attentive. 'If  you
don't know who you want, I'll be glad to serve as your agent - for a modest fee,
of course.'

Panit regarded  him as  he'd regarded  his fellow  fisherfolk. 'I  judge my  own
people - go back to your dishes.'

The bartender clenched his fists in anger and retreated to the other end of  the
bar as the Old Man faced the room.

'I need two, maybe three men for a half-day's work,' he called loudly. 'A copper
now and a silver  when it's over. No  swords or bowmen -just  axes or pole-arms.
I'll be outside.'

'Why are we going to talk to them outside?' Hort asked as he followed his father
into the street.

'I want to know what I'm getting,' the Old Man explained. 'Couldn't see a  thing
in that place.'

It took most of the afternoon  but they finally sorted out three  stalwarts from
the small pack that had followed  them. The sun was dipping towards  the horizon
as Panit gave his last man the advance coin and turned to his son.

'That's about all we can do today,' he said. 'You run along and

see your friends. I'll take care of the trap.'

'Aren't you  going to  tell me  your plan?'  Hort pleaded.  'Haven't got  it all
worked out yet,' the Old Man  admitted,  'but if you want to  see what  happens,
be on  the dock at first light  tomorrow. We'll see how smart this monster is.'

Unlike the day before, Hort was at  the dock well before the dawn. As  the first
tendrils of pre-dawn light began to dispel the night, he was pacing impatiently,
hugging himself against the damp chill of the morning.

Mist hung deep over the water, giving it an eerie, supernatural appearance which
did nothing to ease Hort's fears as he alternately cursed and worried about  his
absent father. Crazy old man! Why  couldn't he be like the other  fishermen? Why
take it on himself to solve the mystery of the sea-monster? Knowing the best way
to combat the  chill was activity  he decided to  launch the family's  boat. For
once, he would be ready when the Old Man got here.

He marched down the dock, then slowed, and finally retraced his steps. The  boat
was gone.  Had Sanctuary's  thieves finally  decided to  ply their  trade on the
wharf? Unlikely. Who would they sell  a stolen boat to? The fishermen  knew each
other's equipment as well as they knew their own.

Could the Old Man have gone out  already? Impossible - to be out of  the harbour
before Hort got there, the Old Man would have had to take the boat out at  night
- and in these waters with the monster...

'You there!'

Hort turned to find the three hired mercenaries coming down the pier. They  were
a sullen crew by this light and the pole-arms two of them carried gave them  the
appearance of Death's own oarsmen.

'We're here,' the leader of the  trio announced, shifting his battle-axe to  his
shoulder, 'though no civilized man fights at this hour. Where's the old man  who
hired us?'

'I don't  know,' Hort  admitted, backing  down from  this fierce assemblage. 'He
told me to meet him here same as you.'

'Good,' the axe-man snarled. 'We've appeared, as promised. The coppers are  ours
- small price  for a practical  joke. Tell that  old man when  you see him  that
we've gone back to bed.'

'Not so fast.' Hort surprised himself  with his sudden outspoken courage as  the
men turned away. 'I've known  the Old Man all my  life and he's no joker.  If he
paid you to be here,  you'll be needed. Or don't  you want the silver that  goes
with those coppers?'

The men hesitated, mumbling together darkly.

'Hort!' Terci was  hurrying towards  them. 'Whafs  going on?  Why are  there cut
throats on the dock?'

'The Old Man hired them,' Hort explained. 'Have you seen him?'

'Not since last night,' the lanky  fisherman replied. 'He came by late  and gave
me this to pass  to you.' He dropped  three silver coins into  the youth's palm.
'He said if he wasn't here by mid-day that you were to use this to pay the men.'

'You see!' Hort called  to the mercenaries as  he held up the  coins. 'You'll be
paid at mid-day and not before. You'll  just have to wait with the rest  of us.'
Turning back to Terci  he lowered his voice  to a conspiratorial whisper.  'What
else did the Old Man say - anything?'

'Only that I should load my  heaviest net this morning,' Terd shrugged.  'What's
going on?'

'He's going to  try to fish  for the monster,'  Hort explained as  the Old Man's
plan came clear to him. 'When I got here his boat was gone.'

"The monster,' Terd blinked. The Old Man's gone out alone after the monster?'

'I don't think so. I've been here since before first light. No, even the Old Man
wouldn't take a boat out in the dark - not after the monster. He must be...'

'Look there! There he is!'

The sun had finally appeared over  the horizon and with its first rays  the mist
began  to fade. A hundred  yards offshore a small  boat bobbed and dipped and in
it they could see the Old Man pulling frantically at the oars.

As they watched he suddenly shipped the oars, waiting expectantly. Then the boat
was jerked around, as  if by an unseen  hand, and the Old  Man bent to the  oars
again.

'He's got it!  He's got the  monster!' Terci shrieked,  dancing with delight  or
horror.

'No!' Hort disagreed firmly, staring at  the distant boat. 'He doesn't have  it.
He's leading it, baiting it into shallow water.'

It was all clear to him now. The metal trap! The monster was used to raiding the
Old Man's traps, so he fed it  one that couldn't be crushed. Now he  was teasing
the unknown  creature towards  shore, dragging  the trap  like a  child drags  a
string before a playful kitten. But this kitten was an unknown, deadly  quantity
that could easily attack the hand that held the string.

'Quick,  Terci,' Hort  ordered, 'get  the net!  It won't  follow him  on to  the
shore.'

The lanky fisherman was gaping at the scene, his mind lost in his own  thoughts.
'Net the monster?'  he mumbled. 'I'll  need help, yes,  help ... HELP!'  He fled
down the dock screaming.at the still-dark, quiet huts.

This was  not the  Maze where  cries for  help went  unheeded. Doors  opened and
bleary-eyed fishermen stumbled out to the wharf.

'What is it?'

'What's the noise?'

'Man the boats! The Old Man's got the monster!'

'The monster?'

'Hurry, Ilak!'

'The Old Man's got the monster!' The cry was passed from hut to hut.

And they came, swarming over their boats  like a nest of angry ants: Haron,  her
sagging  breasts  flopping beneath  the  nightdress she  still  wore; Omat,  his
deformed arm no hindrance as he wrestled his boat on to the water with one hand,
and in the  lead, Terci, first  rowing,  then standing,  in  the small  boat  to
shout orders  at the others.

Hort made no  move to join  them. They were  fishermen and knew  their trade far
better than he.  Instead he stood  rooted on the  dock, lost in  awe of the  Old
Man's courage.

In his mind's eye Hort could see what his father saw: sitting in a small boat on
an inky sea, waiting for the first tug on the rope - then the back-breaking haul
on the oars to drag the metal  trap landward. Always careful not to get  too far
ahead of the invisible  creature below, yet keeping  its interest. The dark  was
the  Old  Man's  enemy as  much  as  the monster  was;  it  threatened him  with
disorientation - and the  mist! A blinding cloud  of  white closing in  from all
sides. Yet the Old  Man had done it and now the monster  was within reach of its
victims' net.

The heavy net  was spread now,  forming a wall  between the mystery  beast as it
followed the Old Man and the open sea behind them. As the boats at either end of
the net began to pull for shore, the Old Man evened his stroke and began to move
steadily through the water ... but he was tired now; Hort could see that even if
no one else could.

'There!' Hort  called to  the mercenaries,  he pointed  towards the  shore-line.
'That's where they'll beach it! Come on!'

He led their rush down the dock. He  heard rather than saw the net scoop up  its
prey; a cheer  went up from  the small boats.  He was waiting  waist-deep in the
water when the Old Man's boat  finally reached the shallows. Grabbing on  to the
cleats, Hort dragged the boat to the beach as if it were a toy while his  father
sagged wearily between the oars.

'The trap,' the Old Man wheezed  through ragged gasps, 'pull it in  before those
fools get it tangled in their nets!'

The rope was cold  and hard as cable,  but Hort dragged the  trap hand-over-hand
away from the sea's  grip. Not surprisingly, it  was full of Nya  that shimmered
and flopped in the morning sun. Without thinking, Hort reached behind his father
and dumped the fish into the boat's live-well.

All the boats were ashore now, and there was splashing and thrashing around  the
net in the shallows.

'What is it like?' the Old Man gasped; he could scarcely raise his head. 'What's
the monster like?'

'It  looks  to  be  a  large  crab,'  Hort  announced,  craning  his  neck. 'The
mercenaries have got to it.'

And they had; waving the crowd back  they waded into the water to strike  at the
spidery giant even before the net was on the shore.

'I thought so,' the Old Man nodded. 'There weren't any teeth marks on the traps.
Some damn sorcerer's pet run loose,' he added.

Hort nodded.  Now that  he could  see the  monster it  fitted the rumours he had
heard from time  to time in  the town. The  Purple Mage had  kept large crabs to
guard his home on the White Foal  River. Rumour said he was dead now,  killed by
his own  magic. The  rumour was  confirmed by  the crab;  it must  have wandered
downstream to the sea when its food no longer appeared.

'Whose catch is that?'

Hort turned to find two Hell Hounds standing close beside him. Simultaneously he
noticed the crowd of townsfolk which had gathered on the streets.

'Everybody's,' the Old Man declared, getting his strength back. 'They caught it.
Or anybody's. Maybe it's Terci's - it's mangled his net.'

'No, Old Man,' Terci declared, approaching them. 'It's your catch. There's  none
on the wharf who'd  deny that - least  of all me. You  caught it. We netted  and
gaffed it for you after the fight.'

'It's yours then,' the Hell Hound decided, facing the Old Man. 'What dp you plan
to do with it?'

It flashed across  Hort's mind that  these soldiers might  be going to  fine his
father for dragging the crab to the beach; they might call it a public  nuisance
or something. He tightened  his grip on the  Old Man's arm, but  he'd never been
able to hold his father.                      -

'I don't  know,' Panit  shrugged. 'If  the circus  was still  in town I'd try to
sell it  to them.  Can't sell  it for  food -  might be  poisonous wouldn't  eat
it myself.'

'I'll buy  it,' the  Hell Hound  announced to  their surprise.  "The Prince  has
tasters and a taste for the unknown. If it's poisonous it will still make  table
talk fit for an Emperor. I'll give you five silvers for it.'

'Five? Ten - times're hard; I've got debts to Jubal for my fish-stall,' the  Old
Man  bargained, no  more awed  by the  Hell Hounds  than he  had been  by  Jubal
himself.

At the mention of the slaver's name, the tall Hell Hound scowled and his swarthy
companion sucked air noisily through his teeth.

'Jubal?' the tall man mumbled as he reached for his pouch. 'You'll have your ten
silvers, fisherman -  and a gold  piece besides. A  man should have  more than a
slaver's receipt for this day's work.'

'Thank ye,' Panit nodded, accepting the  coins. 'Take your watch to the  marshes
and swamps; there's never   one crab but there's   ten. Corner 'em on   dry land
an' Kitty-Kat'll eat crab for a month.'

'Thanks for your information,' the Hell Hound grimaced. 'We'll have the garrison
look into it.'

'Not a bad  day's catch,' the  Old Man chortled  after the retreating  soldiers,
'and Nya besides. I'll send two in luck-money to the blacksmith and the  S'danzo
and get new traps besides.' He cocked his head at his son. 'Well,' he tossed the
gold coin in the  air and caught it  again, 'I've got this  too, to add to  your
other gift.'

'Other gift?' Hort frowned.

The smile fell  from the Old  Man's face like  a mask. 'Of  course,' he snarled.
'Why do you think I went after that thing anyway?'

'For the other fishermen?' Hort offered. 'To save the fishing ground?'

'Aye,' Panit shook his head. 'But in the main it was my gift to you; I wanted to
teach you about pride.'

'Pride?' Hort echoed  blankly. 'You risked  your life to  make me proud  of you?
I've always been proud of you! You're the best fisherman in Sanctuary!'

'Fool!' the Old  Man exploded, rising  to his feet.  'Not what you  think of me;
what you think of yourself!'

'I don't understand,' his son blurted. 'You want me to be a fisherman like you?'

'No, no, no!'  the Old Man  leaped to the  sand and started  to march away, then
returned to loom angrily over the youth. 'Said it before - not everyone can be a
fisherman. You're not - but be something, anything, and have pride in it.  Don't
be a scavenger,  drifting from here  to yon. Take  a path and  follow it. You've
always had a smooth tongue - be a minstrel, or even a storyteller like Hakiem.'

'Hakiem?' Hort bristled. 'He's a beggar.'

'He lives here. He's  a good storyteller; his  wealth's his pride. Whatever  you
do, wherever you go -  take your pride. Be good  with yourself and you'll be  at
home with the best of'em. Take my gift, son; it's only advice, but you'll be the
poorer without  it.' He  tossed the  gold coin  to the  sand at  Hort's feet and
stalked off.

Hort retrieved the coin and stared at the Old Man's back as he marched away.

'Excuse me, young  sir?' Old Hakiem  was scuttling along  the beach, waving  his
arms frantically. 'Was that the Old Man - the one who caught the monster?'

'That's him,' Hort agreed, 'but I don't think this is a good time to be  talking
to him.'

'Do you know him?'  the storyteller asked, holding  fast to Hort's arm.  'Do you
know what  happened here?  I'll pay  you five  coppers for  the story.' He was a
beggar, but he didn't seem to starve.

'Keep your  money, Hakiem,'  the youth  murmured, watching  the now-empty beach.
'I'll give you the story.'

'Eh?'

'Yes,' Hort smiled, tossing his gold coin in the air, catching it and putting it
in his pocket. 'What's more, I'll buy you a cup of wine to go with it - but only
if you'll teach me how to tell it.'



THE VIVISECTIONIST

Andrew Offutt

1

A  minaret  topped  the Governor's  Palace,  naturally.  The narrow,  eventually
pointed dome resembled  an elongated onion.  Its needle-like spire  thrust up to
pierce the sky. That spire, naturally, flaunted a pennon. It bore the device  of
Imperial Ranke (Ranket  Imperatris). Below, the  dome was clamped  by a circular
wall like  upended herbivorous  teeth. If  ever the  palace were  attacked, that
crenellated wall promised, beware archers in the embrasures between the merlons!
Beware dumpers of boiling oil.

Every bit of it was haughty and imperious, insultingly imperial. And high.

Even from the top of the (lower) wall of the granary across the avenue from  the
wall surrounding the Governor's Palace complex, no grapnel could be hurled,  for
no human was so strong.

An arrow, however, could be shot.

On a night when the moon over Sanctuary was not a maiden's pale round breast but
a niggling little crescent hardly worthy of the business end of a scythe, a  bow
twanged like a dying lute. An arrow rushed at the pennon spire of the Governor's
Palace. After it, like  the web-trail of an  industrious spider or a  wind-blown
tent caterpillar, sped a silken cord so slim as to be invisible.

And then it was laboriously and time-consumingly drawn and dragged back, for the
archer had missed his shot.

He aimed anew, face set for curses rather than prayers. Elevating his bow a bit,
he drew  to the  cheek and,  daringly endangering  the springy  wood, drew  even
further. Uttering not a prayer but a curse, he  released. Away  sped the  arrow.
It  trailed its  spidery line  Hke a strand of spittle in the pallid moonlight.

It proved a night  for the heeding of  curses, if not the  answering of prayers.
That was appropriate and perhaps significant in Sanctuary called Thieves' World.

The shaft streaked past the spire and  reached the end of its tether if  not its
velocity. It snapped back. The line forced it into a curving attempt to  return.
It snapped around the spire. Twice, thrice, four times. The archer was  dragging
hard. Keeping taut the silken line bought at the expense of a pair of lovely ear
pendants  of gold  and amethyst  and chrysoprase  stolen from  -never mind.  The
archer pulled his line, hard.  That maintained and increased tension,  tightened
the arrow's whipping about the spire which was, naturally, gilded.

Then all motion ceased. A mourning dove spoke to the night, but no one  believed
that dolorous call presaged  rain. Not in Sanctuary!  Not at this time  of year.
The archer leaned into his line, and braced his heels to lean his full weight on
it. The cord was a taut  straight-edge of immobility and invisibility under  the
un-anposing one-ninth moon.

Teeth flashed in the dimness. The archer's, standing atop the granary behind the
Governor's Palace of Sanctuary. His mop of hair was blacker than shadowed  night
and his eyes  nearly so, under  brows that just  missed meeting above  a bridged
nose that Just missed being falcate.

He collected his other gear, collected himself, swallowed hard, choked up all he
could on his line until he was straining, stretched, on tipetoe.

Then he thought something rather prayer-like, and out he swung.

Out above the street made broad  enough to accommodate several big grain  wagons
abreast he swung, and across it. The looming wall rushed at him.

Even with the bending of his knees until they were nearly at his chest, the  jar
of his  impact with  the unyielding  wall was  enough to  rattle teeth  and turn
prayers to curses.  Nothing broke, neither  legs nor silken  line. Certainly not
the wall,  which was  of stone,   quarried and  cut to  form a barrier four feet
thick.

He went up  the rope in  a reverse rappel,  step after step  and hand over hand.
Dragging himself up the wall, walking up the fine perfectly set stones, climbing
above death, for that was the penalty for slipping. The street was far below and
farther with each pulling step.

He never considered that, or death,  for he never considered the possibility  of
slipping.

A mighty warrior he was not. As an archer he had many peers and many betters. As
a youth  he was  perfect, lean  and wiry  and strong.  He was a highly competent
thief in a citylet named for thieves. Not a cutpurse or a street-snatcher or  an
accoster; a thief. A burglar. As such, he was a superb climber of walls, without
better  and  possibly without  peer.  He was  good  at slipping  in  by high-set
windows, too.

His  colouring and  clothing were  for the  night, and  shadows. They  were  old
friends, he and shadows.

He did  not slip.  He ascended.  He muscled  himself atop  the broad wall of the
Governor's Palace, of Sanctuary. Unerringly, he stepped through the crenel,  the
embrasure between two  merlons like blunt  lower teeth. And  he was at  home, in
shadow.

Now, he gazed upon the palace itself;  the palace of the golden prince sent  out
from Ranke  to (pretend  to) govern  Sanctuary. The  thief smiled,  but with his
mouth closed.  Here there  were tigers  in the  form of  guards, and young teeth
would flash even in this most wan of moonlight. That precaution was merely  part
of his competence.

At that, he had lived  only about a score of  years. He was not sure  whether he
was nineteen or twenty or a bit older.  No one was sure, in this anile town  the
conquering Rankans called  Thieves' World. Perhaps  his mother knew  - certainly
not the  father he  had never  known and  whom she  had known casually, for this
thief was a bastard by birth and  often, even usually, by nature - but  who knew
who or where his mother was?

Below, within the  wall lay ancillary  buildings and a  courtyard the size  of a
thoroughfare or a small community  common, and guards. Across, just  over there,
rose the palace.  Like him it was a  shadow, but it loomed far  more imposing.

He had broken into it once before. Or rather he had previously gained  nocturnal
entry in manner clandestine,  for that other time  he had help. A  gate had been
left unlocked for him, and a door ajar.

Entering that way was far easier and much preferable to this. But that time  the
opener of the gate had been bent on the public embarrassment and downfall of the
Governor, and the thief was not.

Prince-Governor Kadakithis  was no  enemy, as  a matter  of fact,  to this youth
spawned in  the shadows  of the  wrong end  of town.  The thief had rendered the
Rankan prince two considerable services. He had been rewarded, too, although not
in such a manner that he could live happily ever after.

Now, on this  night of the  most niggling of  crescent moons, he  stood atop the
wall and took in his line from  behind and below. It stretched upward still,  to
the pennon spire. It remained taut. He had to believe that it would continue  to
do. Elsewise  he was  about to  splatter on  to the  pave below  like a  dropped
pomegranate, a fruit whose pulp is plentiful and whose juice is red.

When the line was again taut he yanked, dragged, braced, yanked, swallowed hard,
and kicked himself off the wall into Space. His stomach fell two storeys to  the
pave; he did  not. His soft-booted  but padded feet  struck another wall  of cut
fulvistone. Impact was no fun and he had to stifle his grunt.

Then he went up.

'D'you hear  something, Frax?'  A voice  like a  horse-drawn sledge gliding over
hard earth. Not stone, or sand, but packed dry earth.

'Mmm? Hm? Huh? Wha'?' A deeper voice.

'I said: Frax, did you hear something?'

Silence. (At sound of the voice the thief had frozen. Hands-forearms-torso  atop
the very palace; tail in space and legs adangle.)

'Uh-huh. I heard something, Purter. I heered her say "Oh Frax you han'some dawg,
you're the best. Now suck on thisun  awhile, darling," and then you woke me  up,
you bastard.'

'We're supposed to be on guard duty not sleeping, Frax, damn it. - Who was she?'

'Not  gonto tell  you. No  I din't  hear nothing.  What's to  hear? An  army  of
Downwinders comin' over the friggin' walls? Somebody riding in on a hootey-owl?'

'Oh,' Purler's higher  voice said, with  a shiver in  it. 'Don't say  that. It's
dark and creepy enough tonight.'

'Stuporstishus  rectum,'  Prax  accused, with  more  austerity  than skill,  and
lowered his head again on to his uplifted knees.

During their exchange the thief had got  his rangy self on to the wall.  He made
hardly any sound, but those idiots would have drowned out something even as loud
as snapping fingers. He wriggled through another embrasure and on to the defence
gallery that ran  around the top  of the palace,  below the dome  and spire that
rose on  up, higher  than the  outer wall.  Men trusted  with guard duty, he was
thinking  contemptuously,  heard something  and  blabbered. He  shook  his head.
Idiots! He  could teach  these stupid  soft-butted 'soldiers'  a thing  or three
about security! It took a civilian to know about the best security measures,  in
such a town as  this. For one thing,  when you thought you  heard something, you
shut the  hell up  and listened.  Then you  made just  a little noise to pretend
unconcern, and froze to catch the noise-maker in another movement.

The shadow of a shadow, he moved along the gallery, between the smooth curve  of
the dome and the  crenellations of a wall.  After thirty-one paces he  heard the
scuffing footsteps  and tap-tapping  pikestaff butt  of a  careless sentry. That
persuaded him to  squat, get as  close to the  wall as he  could, and lie  down.
Flat, facing the wall,  whose merlons rose above  the gallery. He lay  perfectly
still, a shadow in shadow.

A spider wandered over his shoulder and up his cheek and began struggling in his
black mop of hair, and was unmolested. The spider felt warmth, but no  movement,
not so much as a twitch. (If  mental curses could have effect, the spider  was a
goner.)

The sentry ambled by, scuffing and  tapping. The thief heard him yawn.  Dumb, he
thought, dumb. How nice it was of  sentries to pace and make noise, rather  than
be still and listen!

The sentry having moved on leftward  along the perimeter of the wall,  the thief
moved on rightward; northwestward. He'd an armlet of leather and copper well  up
his right  upper arm,  and a  long bracer  of black  leather on that wrist. Each
contained  a nasty  leaf-bladed throwing  knife of  dull blue-black.  There  was
another in his left buskin, where sheath and hilt were mere decoration. He  wore
no other weapons, none that showed. Certainly he bore neither sword nor axe, and
the bow lay at the base of the granary wall.

He stopped. Stepped into a crenel just above two feet deep. Stared, off into the
darkness. Yes. There was the spire of the Temple of Holy Allestina Ever  Virgin,
poor thing.  It was  the first  of the  markers he  had so carefully spotted and
chosen, this afternoon.

The  thief did  not intend  to enter  the palace  by just  any window.  He  knew
precisely where he was going.

The task of regaining line and arrow was more difficult than he had anticipated.
He silenced snarls and curses. Knot a rope ten times and try swinging on it  and
the accursed thing might well work itself  loose. Shoot an arrow to wrap a  cord
slimmer than a little finger around  a damned gilded brass flagpole, and  he had
to fight to get the damned thing to let go!

Within four or six minutes (with silenced snarls and curses) he had sent  enough
loops and twitches  ripple-writhing up the  line to loosen  the arrow. It  swung
once around the spire, twice, encountered  the line, and caught. More curses,  a
sort of prayer, and  more twitches and ripples  riding up the line.  Reluctantly
the arrow  ended its  loving embrace  of the  pennon spire.  The line  fluttered
loose. Down came the arrow. It fell  with a clatter that, to a shadowy  thief in
shadows, sounded like thunder on a cloudless day.

Sleepy sentries heard no thunder. Only he noticed. He reeled in line  and arrow.
In a  crouch, he  reached behind  him into  hi snugly  fitted backpack. From  it
he drew two  cylinders of hard  wood wrapped with  black cloth. Around   them he
looped his  line arrow  detached. He  held silent  for a  time, listening. A fly
hummed restless and  loud. The thief  heard nothing to  indicate that any  o his
actions had been noticed with anything approaching alarm.

Rising, he went on his way. Along the perimeter of the palace along the  flagged
walkway betwixt dome and toothy wall.

Moving with  a cat  suppleness that  would have  been scary  to an] observer, he
reached his second marker. Nicely framed  betweer two merlons, he could see  it,
away off in the  distance. The purple' black  shape ofJulavain's Hill. Again  he
smiled, tight of lip.

A merlon  became a  winch, aided  by the  two wooden  cylinders brought  for the
purpose. They would pay out the  silken cord and prevent the stone  from slicing
it. Its other end he secured to his ankles. And froze, waiting while the  sentry
clumped by. He was not importantly  thumping his pike's butt, now. He  no longei
cared to keep  himself awake. The  thief gritted his  teeth against the  ghastly
noise of  the hardest  of wood  grating over  harder flagstones.  The porker was
dragging his pike!

Then silence was thick enough to cut  with a knife, of which the thief  owned an
abundance. He waited. And waited.

At last  he stepped,  still crouching,  into the  crenel. Turning,  he carefully
winched himself, backwards,  down the wall.  Down and down,  until he came  to a
particular window.  It was  cut in  the shape  of a  diamond. That  decision had
involved more than aesthetics; the damned thing was harder to enter.

Most carefully indeed, he turned. He paid  out the cord with his hands until  he
was quite upside down outside that  window. Blood flowed into his head  while he
strained  muscles  and  vision  until  he  was  assured  that  the  chamber  was
uninhabited.

Then,  grinning, Hanse  the thief  flipped down  and dropped  lightly into   the
bedchamber of H.R.H. Kadakithis, Prince-Governor of Sanctuary.

He had  done it  again! And  this time  all on  his own  and without aid. He had
breached the wall,  eluded the guards,  broken into the  palace, and was  in the
very privatemost chamber of the Prince-Governor himself!

Well, lord Prince,  you wanted to  see Shadowspawn -  here he is,  awaiting you!
Thus he thought while he freed  his ankles of expensive silken line  and removed
his gloves. At least this time no bedmate waited here for her youthful lord.

It was  all Hanse  could do  to keep  from laughing  aloud in  sheerest prideful
delight.

'A nice-looking girl  left this here  for you, Hanse,'  Moonflower the Seer  had
told him. 'She got it from another - along with a coin for her trouble - who got
it from still another.'

Hanse raised his  dark, dark brows  and hooked a  thumb in the  shagreen belt he
wore over a screamingly red sash. From one side of the belt was slung a  dagger.
An Ilbarsi knife, long as his whole arm, hung down his other leg.

'This you ... Saw, Passionflower?'

She smiled, a hugely fat and grossly misnamed woman who overflowed two  cushions
atop a low stool. She saw him as a boyish boy and had ever let him turn her head
with his charm, which she was almost alone in seeing.

'Oh no,' Moonflower said  almost archly, 'I needed  to go to no  such trouble. I
know things, you know.'

'Oh, I know you know things, you clever darling,' he told that gross dumpling in
her several  skirts, each  of more  than one  unrepeated colour.  'And this time
you're going to let me know how you know, I know.'

She nodded at the wax-sealed walnut shell he was idly tossing in his left  hand.
'You know me too well, don't you, you naughty scamp! Smell it.'

Up went his close-snuggling brows again,  and he brought the shell to  his nose.
He rolled his eyes. 'Aha! Perfume. A good one. Times are good for the only  true
mage of Sanctuary, then.'

'You know that is not my perfume,' she said, not without a sideward turn of  her
blue-tressed head to give him an arch look.

'Now I know that,'  Shadowspawn said, jocular and  easygoing and almost cute  in
the sunlight, 'because  you tell me so. The walnut was  given you by a  well-off
girl wearing   good perfume,  then.  Betwixt  her breasts,   I'll bet, where she
bore this charming charm.'

She lifted a dimpled finger. 'Ah! But that is the point. The scent on that charm
is not mine, and the girl who gave it me wore none at all.'            -

'Oh Moonflower, pride of the S'danzo and of Sanctuary! By Ils if the P-G knew of
your genius, he'd not have that ugly old charlatan at court, but you, only  you!
So. By the perfume you  know that there was a  third woman, who gave this  and a
coin to another to give to you to give to me.' He wagged his head. 'What a  game
of  roundabout! But  what makes  you think  this thing  was given  her by  still
another, to begin with?'

'I saw the coin,' Moonflower said, all  kittenish inside a body to block a  door
or bring groans to a good steed.

'It bore still another scent?'

Moonflower laughed.  'Ah Hanse,  Hanse. I  know that.  Soon you  will know  too,
surely,  once you  open the  walnut shell.  Surely it  contains a  message  from
someone who wanted no one to know he sent it to you.'

'He?'

'Do you care to make a wager?'

He who was called  Shadowspawn clutched the walnut  to him in mock  terror. With
his other hand he  clutched his purse theatrically.  'Wager with you about  your
wisdom? Never! No one has accused me  of being stupid.' Well, almost no one,  he
mentally  added, thinking  of that  burly stranger,  Tempus the  Hell Hound  ...
Tempus the ... what?

'Be off with you and open it privily then. You're standing between me and paying
clients!'

There were none present,  Hanse assured himself before  he said, 'In a  moment,'
and  thumb-nailed the  brownish wax  along the  lip-like closure  of the  walnut
shell.  He  knew Moonflower  was  frowning, believing  that  he should  be  more
secretive, but he also knew what he  wanted to do. A gesture, merely a  gesture.
The scrap of extra  fine leaf-paper he  took out and  poked, still folded,  into
his sash. Pressing the shell closed  and  thumbing the wax into a  semblance  of
seal, he proffered  it to  the S'danzo  seer who  consistently proved  that  she
was no charlatan.

'For Mignureal,' he said, pretending shyness. 'To scent her... her clothing,  or
something?'

For a moment the  flicker of a frown  appeared on Moonflower's doughy  face, for
her big-eyed daughter was quite  taken with this dangerous youth  from Downwind,
whose means of income  was no secret. Then  she smiled and accepted  the scented
shell.  It  swiftly vanished  into  the vast  cleavage  of what  she  called her
treasure chest, under her shawl.

'You're such a nice boy,  Hanse. I'll give it to  her. Now you git, and  inspect
your  message. Maybe  some highborn  lady wants  a bit  of dalliance  with  your
handsome self!'

The  rangy  young man  called  Shadowspawn had  left  her then.  Smile  and even
pleasant expression left  his face and  he swaggered like  a Mrsevadan gamecock.
Face and walk were part of his image, which none would dare say might stem  from
insecurity. Still, Moonflower's words would  not have made him smile  anyhow. He
was not  handsome and  knew it,  as he  knew that  his height  was no  more than
average. The biggest thing about him was his ego - although his lips, which some
thought were sensuous, were to him too full. His nickname others had given  him.
He did not dislike it; his mentor  Cudget Swearoath had told him a nickname  was
good  to  have  - even  such  a  one as  'Swearoath'.  Hanse  was just  a  name;
Shadowspawn  was  dramatic,  with  a romantic  and  rather  sinister  sound that
appealed to the youth.

He left Moonflower remembering how he had indeed dallied with a beauty of means.
Highborn she was not,  though she had been  from the palace, and  richly garbed.
Hanse had been touched both in his ego and in his greed, by her attentions. Only
later had he discovered that it was not truly he she was interested in. She  and
a  fellow plotter  were in  the employ  of someone  back in  Ranke -the  Emperor
himself, perhaps envious  or wary of  Kadakithis's good looks?  - who wanted  to
discredit and destroy the new Prince-Governor, him they  called Kitty-K-at. They
had elected to   use Hanse in  their plot; Hanse  had been their  dupe! - for  a
while.

But that was done with, and on this later day he left Moon-flower and  swaggered
along the streets. His eyes were hooded and the weapons all too obvious on  him.
Some stepped  off the  narrow planking  of the  sidewalk for  him, and (quietly)
cursed themselves  for it.  Still, they  would do  it again.  In appearance, all
tucked in  behind his  eyes and  abristle with  sharp blades,  he was  'about as
pleasant as gout or dropsy', as a certain merchant had once described him.

Well, he was alive.  Both the lovely  plotter and her  traitorous Hell Hound  co
conspirator  were  not. Further,  Kadakithis  was grateful.  And  now, as  Hanse
discovered to  his astonishment  back in  his quarters,  the Prince-Governor had
actually sent him a note!

Hanse recognized the  seal and the  scrawl at the  bottom from other  documents.
Since Prince Kadakithis knew  that Hanse could not  read, the bit of  fine paper
contained not  writing, but  clever drawings.  The Governor's  seal, with a hand
extending from it, beckoning  to a dark splotch.  It was man-shaped -  a shadow.
Under that was an untidy jumble  of (turnip slices?) with straight lines  raying
up from them. Shadowspawn's frown was a momentary thing. Then he was nodding  in
comprehension - he hoped.

'The P-G wants me to come calling on him, and here's a promise of reward:  shiny
coins. He sealed up the  message in the walnut shell  and gave it to one  of his
harem, with instructions. No  one should see Hanse  the thief receive a  message
from the Prince-Governor, else Hanse's name become Plague and he be avoided  the
same. So that girl found another, and passed on the walnut and a coin, with  her
lord's instructions: "Take this to Moonflower for Hanse."'

And she had  actually done it,  without prying open  the shell in  an attempt to
gain greater treasure than one  coin! Well, miracles had happened  before, Hanse
mused, gazing pensively at the strange message. Had she opened the shell,  she'd
likely have discarded the note.

Or nervously pressed it  back into the shell  to scuttle to Moonflower  with it.
Maybe someone does  know that Hanse  received a message  that shows a  beckoning
hand  from the Rankan  seal, and a  pile of coin.  I hope she's  the quiet sort!
If I knew who she is, I'd scare her into silence. But then maybe she didn't open
it at all...

The point is, I hate to walk into the palace, day or night. How would that look?
Me!

Besides, someone inside probably spies for someone out here, and the word  would
be passed. Hanse  just walked right  up and in,  and he was  passed, too! Better
watch him; maybe he's a spy for that golden-haired Rankan boy in the palace!

And so Hanse had thought on that, and  begun to grin, and then to plan, and  out
he went  to reconnoitre  and plan,  and now  he had  broken in,  all unseen  and
unknown, to await his summoner in the latter's own privy apartment!

And now, sitting there waiting,  Hanse reflected and contemplated the  more, and
his face clouded. The prickling in his arms started slowly, and grew.

Unwittingly  the tool  of that  pretty Lirain  who had  so cleverly  seduced  or
'seduced' him (with no  trouble at all!), he  had gained this apartment  before,
also by night and  secretly. That time he  had stolen the very  symbol of Rankan
power, that wand  called the Savankh.  Eventually all that  had turned out,  and
governor and thief reached an understanding. By way of reward, Hanse was granted
pardon for all he might have done - once he had assured the royal youth that  he
had never slain.  (He had, since.  It afforded him  little enjoyment or  pride.)
Hanse  also came  out of  that painful  adventure with  a nice  little  fortune.
Unfortunately it was  in two saddlebags  currently reposing at  the bottom of  a
well. He hoped those saddlebags were of good leather.

Now he had  broken in here  twice. This time  he had proven  that he could enter
this apartment without help from inside or out. What then, when Kadakithis  gave
thought to that?

Hanse had respect for  the youthful Rankan's mind.  It even possessed a  devious
quality. Hanse had seen and felt  proof of that, when as Kadakithis's  unwilling
agent he had participated in the ruin of the two plotters. Bourne and Lirain.

Suppose, the frowning Hanse mused, that Kadakithis pondered and kept thinking.

There existed in Sanctuary  one who could gain  his chambers and thus  his royal
and  gubernatorial  self,  at will.  At  any  time, and  never  mind  guards and
sentries! Suppose that one chose to come again, as thief? - or was hired to  do,
as assassin?  Would such  a possibility  not tend  to prey  on Kadakithis's good
mind? Might he not decide that he was less than wise to trust him called  Shadow
spawn,  a thief  and ruthless  besides? Might  he not  go even  further in   his
thinking, and decide - wisely, as he would see it - that all things  considered,
Hanse was more dangerous than valuable?

In  that  case,  the  Prince-Governor might  very  well  conclude,  he and  thus
Sanctuary  and  thus  Ranke  were  better  off  without  such  worries,  such  a
possibility. In that event, it might occur to him that the world were better off
without Hanse's continued presence in it.  Nor would the world take heed  of the
timely demise of a cocky young thief.

Hanse swallowed, blinked. Sitting stiffly on a divan in the luxurious apartment,
he put it all  through his mind again  and chased its tail.  He came to his  own
conclusion.

I have been a fool. I did all this  for my pride, to be such a clever fellow.  I
am a clever thief, but a stupid  fellow! Being here thus when he comes  in could
gain me another  signature on  another document  from him  - this  time my death
order! Oh damn plague and pox, what have I done!?

Nothing, he thought as he rose with a great sigh, that could not be undone... he
hoped. All he had to do was betake himself from here so that neither  Kadakithis
nor  anyone  else would  ever  know he  had  broken in.  He  glanced around  and
swallowed  hard.  It certainly  was  hard and  against  the grain  not  to steal
something!

And so Shadowspawn went to the window, and wearily began the process of breaking
out of the Governor's Palace and its grounds.


2

'It develops that I need  help,' Prince-Governor Kadakithis said, 'and  I cannot
see a way to threaten it out of anyone.'

'Including me?'

'Including you, Hanse.  Furthermore, if you  won't help, I  can't see how  I can
punish you either.'

'I'm glad to hear  it. But I didn't  know there were things  a governor couldn't
do, much less a prince.'

'Well, Shadowspawn, now you know. Even Kitty-Kat isn't all powerful.'

'You need help and the Hell Hounds can't provide it?'

'That is close, Hanse. The Imperial Elite Guardsmen cannot help me with this. Or
so I perceive it.'

'I sure do wish you would sit down. Highness, so I can.'

Kadakithis walked across the rich carpet  of his privatemost chamber and sat  on
the edge of  the peacock spread  of his bed.  He gestured. 'Do  take that divan,
Hanse, or those cushions as it pleases you.'

Hanse nodded his  thanks. He sank  among the cushions,  curbing a grin  at their
luxury. Last night he  had sat on the  divan, and only he  knew it. This day  he
chose the luxury of the jumble  of stuffed Aurveshan silk. (Quag the  Hell Hound
had been on  duty at the  gate. He had  recognized the hooded  blind beggar, who
winked  at him.  Having been  secretly apprised  that Hanse  was invited.   Quag
conducted the  blind beggar  to His  Highness. The  hooded robe  lay on  the bed
beside the  prince now,  who had  congratulated Hanse  on the  cleverness of his
entry. Hanse forbore to tell him how much more clever he had been last night.)

Now he decided  that he could  afford a modicum  of daring: 'Either  I'm hearing
sideways or you just  told me you need me for something  the Hell Hounds, I mean
Imperial Elites, can't do. Or that your Highness can't trust them with?  Or that
you don't  want them  to know  about.' Revelation:  'Or ... something illegal?'

'I will not affirm or deny anything  that you have said.' That said, the  prince
merely gazed at him. The boy did a good job of looking enigmatic, Hanse   mused,
overlooking the  fact that they  were about the same age.

'If the prince will forgive me saying it... his Chief of Security is surely  not
one to baulk at such a ... mission.'

The  prince  continued to  stare.  One pale  eyebrow  rose slightly  under  that
disgustingly handsome shock of yellow hair. And then Hanse was staring.

Tempus! It's about Tempus, isn't afl I haven't sees him for weeks.'

'Kadakithis turned his  gaze on an  ornate Yenizedish tapestry.  'Hanse: neither
have I.'

'He is not on a mission for your Highness?'

'Just use the pronoun for  me, Hanse, and we can  save whole days of our  lives.
No. He is not. He is missing. Who might wish him to be missing?'

Hanse was wary of being used as informant, but saw no reason not to answer  that
one. 'Oh, half the people in town. Maybe more. About the same number that  would
wish  the  governor to  be  missing. Your  pardon  of course.  Governor.  Or the
Emperor. Or Ranke.'

'Hmm. Well, Empire is  built on conquest, not  love, however often they  are the
same. But I have striven to be decent here. Fair.'

Hanse considered. 'It is possible that  you have been fairer than we  might have
expected.'

'Nicely  put.  Carefully chosen  words.  You may  well  become a  diplomat  yet,
Shadowspawn. And the Hell Hounds'! What of them?'

Hanse  smiled  briefly at  the  slim noble's  calling  his elite  guards  by the
people's name  for them;  indeed, even  the Hell  Hounds called  themselves Hell
Hounds these days. It  was a dramatic name  with a romantic and  rather sinister
sound that appealed to their sort.

'Shall I answer that, to one from Ranke, with all the power there is? What power
have I?'       .

'You  have influence  with the  Prince-Governor, Hanse,  and with  his Chief  of
Security. You uncovered the plot against me and helped break it up. You regained
that awful fear-rod, and it cost  you.  Recently you helped Tempus in  a matter,
too. Now we are even in one area at least, aren't we?'

'Even? I? Me? Hanse of Sanctuary and the Emperor's brother?'

'Stepbrother,' the prince corrected, and fixed Hanse with a wide-eyed gaze,  all
blue.  It reminded  Hanse of  his own  ingenuous pose.  'Yes. Now  we have  both
killed. I, Bourne. You... the night Tempus lost his horse.'

'The Prince-Governor is not without knowledge,' Hanse observed.

'Another careful, diplomat's phrasing! Now: Tempus set himself to destroying the
minions of that Jubal fellow. Do you know why?'

'Maybe Tempus is a racist,' Hanse said, trying to look wide-eyed and ingenuous.

It didn't appear to  be working. Damn. This  golden-locked boy was smarter  than
Moonflower, despite her extra-human ability. Hanse sighed. 'You know. Jubal is a
slaver and those weird-masked employees of  his are feared. He has respect,  and
power. Tempus works for you, for Ranke's power.'

'Let's don't go making wagers on that. Would you say his killing of those in the
blue birdmasks might be called murder, Hanse?'

'It might if it was one of us,' Hanse said, to the gleaming top of a low  table.
'Surely not for him that calls us Wrigglies, though.'

The  prince  failed  to  disguise his  little  start.  'Strong  words, Hanse  of
Sanctuary. And to one who does not call the Children of Ils "Wrigglies"!'

'Yes, and I really wish  I hadn't said it. As  a matter of fact I  wish I wasn't
here at all. How  can I share confidences  here? How can I  say my mind to  you,
when you aren't a you, but both prince and governor?'

'Hanse: we have  been through some  things together.' In  a manner of  speaking,
Hanse thought. You weren 't poked with

that damned terror-stick, and  you didn't spend half  the night down a  well and
the other on a torturer's table!

'I might even consider myself in your debt,' Kadakithis went on.

'I am getting awfully uncomfortable,  my lord ofRanke,' Hanse said  elaborately.
'Will my lord Prince tell me why I am here?'

'Damn!' Kadakithis regarded the carpet and heaved a great sigh. 'I've an idea it
would be a waste of time to offer you wine, my friend. So I -'

'Friend!'

'Why yes, Hanse,' Kadakithis  said, all large of  eye and open-looking. 'I  call
you friend. We are even of an age.'

Hanse erupted to his feet in a jerk that was still admirably sinuous. He  paced.
'Oh,' he  said, and  paced. 'Oh  gods. Prince  -don't call  me friend! Don't let
anyone else hear that!'

The prince looked  very much as  if he wanted  to touch him,  and was sure  that
Hanse would  shrink away.  'How lonely  we both  are, Hanse.  You won't have any
friends, and I can't! I dare trust no one, and you who could trust - you  reject
even an extended hand.'

Hanse  was  almost  stricken.  Friends?  He  thought  of  Cudget,  dead  Cudget.
OfMoonflower. OfTempus. Was Tempus a  friend? Who could trust Tempus?  Who could
trust anyone wearing the title 'governor'?

'Ranke and Sanctuary are not friends,' he said slowly, quietly. 'You are  Ranke.
I am of Sanctuary, and... more. Not, uh, noble.'

'Trusted friend of the governor? The thief Shadowspawn?'

Hanse caught himself about  to say 'Thief? Who,  me, Governor?' and stopped  the
words. Kadakithis knew. Nor was he Moonflower or that melon-pedlar Irohunda,  to
be taken in by Hanse's cultivated  (and seldom used) boyish act. But..  .friendf
It was a frightening word, to Shadowspawn from Downwind and the Maze.

'Let's  try to  be bigger  than Ranke  and Sanctuary.  Let's try,  Hanse. I   am
reaching out. Speaking plainly: Tempus declared war on Jubal - not on my  orders
- and Jubal retaliated  or tried to. You  were there and you  didn't run. Tempus
lost  a  horse  and gained  a  friend.  You defended  Tempus,  helped  him. More
Hawkmasks died. Are you in danger for that, from Jubal?'

'Probably. I've been trying not to think about that.'

'And me?'

'The Empire's governor  in Sanctuary knows  to go forth  armed and with  guards,
because he is governor,' Hanse said, not so enigmatically.

'Diplomatic, careful words again! - And Tempus?'

It was  then that  Hanse knew  why he  was here.  'You ...  you think  Jubal has
Tempus!'

The  prince regarded  him. 'Hanse,  some people  don't try  to be   particularly
likeable. Tempus seems to try not  to be. I cannot imagine calling  him friend.'
Kadakithis  paused  to  be  certain Hanse  grasped  his  implication.  'Still, I
represent the Empire. I govern for Ranke, subject to the Emperor. Tempus  serves
and represents me, and Ranke. I do not  have to love him, or like him. But!  How
can I tolerate anyone's taking action against any of my people?' Kadakithis made
a two-handed  gesture while  Hanse thought:  How strange  that I  think more  of
Tempus - Thales - than the Prince-Governor he serves! 'I cannot, Hanse! Nor  can
I use the Hell Hounds to investigate,  not in a really sensitive matter such  as
this. Nor can I launch attack on Jubal, or even arrest him - not and govern  the
way I wish to do.'

He really does  want to do  well, to be  friends with Sanctuary!  What a strange
RankanI 'You could call him in for questioning.' Hanse was hopeful.

'I had  rather not.'  The young  Rankan called  Kitty-Kat shot  to his feet with
admirable use of legs alone, if not with a thief's sinuous grace. 'I had  rather
acknowledge his existence,  can you see  that?' He waved  a hand in  a rustle of
aquamarine silk sleeve,  took a pace,  turned his earnest  face on Hanse.  'I am
governor here. I am Empire. He is -'

'Gods, Prince, I'm only a damned thief!'

Kadakithis frowned and  glanced around, ignoring  Hanse's look of  horror at his
blurted words. 'Did you hear someone say something, just then?'

'No.'

'Neither did I. As I was saying, Tempus doesn't mean that much to me and I don't
mean   that much  to Tempus.  Tempus, I  fear,  serves  Tempus and  whatever  he
fancies is his destiny. I might not even miss him. Still,  there are some things
I dare not  allow, dare not  tolerate. Oh how  I wish you could understand a bit
of how difficult it is, being bom royal, and holding this job!'

Hanse, who had never held any job, tried. And without trying, he looked  earnest
and sympathetic. With a prince!

'Now I think that you are Tempus's friend, Hanse. Would Jubal torture him?'

Hanse felt himself  about to develop  a taste for  strong drink. Looking  at the
other very young man's sash - an Ilsigi sash - he nodded. Abruptly he wanted  to
curse. Instead he felt an unwonted and unwanted prayer come cat-sidling into his
mind: 0 Ils, god of my  people and father  ofShalpa my patron!  It is true  that
Tempus-Thales serves Vashanka  Tenslayer. But help  us, help us  both, Lord Ils,
and I swear to do all I can to destroy Vashanka Sister-wifer or drive him hence,
if  only You  will show  me the  way!  .  And Hanse  blinked, and  hurled that
ridiculous and unwelcome thought bodily from his mind. Prayers indeed!

'Hanse... consider the limits to my power. I am not a man named Kadakithis; I am
governor. I cannot do anything about it. I cannot.'

Hanse looked up to meet those  cerulean eyes. 'Prince, if someone broke  in here
to kill you  right now, I'd  probably defend you.  But I would  not try to sneak
into Jubal's keep for half your fortune and all your women.'

'Alone against Jubal? Lord, neither would  I!' Kadakithis came to him then,  and
laid hands on  a thief's shoulders.  His eyes were  intense and large.  'My only
request of  you, Hanse,  is... I  just wish  you'd agree  to try  to learn where
Tempus is. That's all. Your way, Hanse,  and for a lot less reward than  half my
fortune and the women I brought here.'

Hanse  backed  from  under those  hands,  from  those staring  eyes  so  full of
sincerity. He paced to the bed, and the hooded robe of a blind beggar.

'I wish to leave by the fourth window down. Prince. That way I can let myself on
to the  roof of  your smokehouse.  If you  were to  call in  your sentinels  for
review,  I'd be  out  of  here by  the  time  they reached  your presence.'

Kadakithis nodded.'And?'

'And I -I don't want any reward but don't dare ever tell anyone I said that,  or
remind me! You'll hear from me -'  he whirled and skewered the other very  young
man with a gaze like an accusation - 'friend.'1

Kadakithis was wise enough to nod  without smile or comment. Besides, he  looked
more as if he wanted to cry, or reach out.

'I understand your reason, Hanse. But, are you sure you can manage to break  out
of here ... the palaceT

Hanse turned away to roll his eyes. 'With your help. Prince, I may be able to do
it. I'd hate to have to try to break in. though!'


3

It might have taken a trained investigator from Ranke a week, or a lifetime.  It
might have taken a Hell Hound a month or two lifetimes (a Tempus lifetime?),  or
a couple of days with the aid of shining ugly instruments of suasion. It took  a
thief of Sanctuary less than a full  day to collect the information. Had he  had
letters, he'd have made a list.

Since he was  unlettered, he must  reckon and account  in his head,  once he had
talked with this one and that one and some others. Only one realized that he was
actively seeking information, and  that was because Hanse  let her know. Now  he
made his  list, in  his head,  while he  sprawled on  his own  bed and stared at
nothing in particular.

Tempus did not get on with the other Hell Hounds.

Tempus waged private  war on Jubal.  It was his  own decision. (Not  a good one;
Jubal's business profited Thieves' World and Empire as well.)

Jubal was a  merchant who dealt  in human merchandise.  He provided some  few to
that scrawny Kurd  fellow of whom  even hardened Sanctuarites  spoke susurrantly
and with glances cast uncomfortably this way and that.

In the barracks, Tempus  had had serious  trouble with Razkuli  and that  snarly
growly  Zaibar. (Quag  had mentioned  that to  a certain  woman under  the  most
intimate  of  circumstances.  A  bad  but  common  time  for  the  imparting  of
confidences.)

Stulwig Northbom had spent a  shining coin bearing the Emperor's  likeness. Such
coinage was not  all that common  here, although it  was welcome. People  of the
governor's staff occasionally spent such  coins. Likely then someone had  bought
something off  Stulwig; someone  from the  palace. Stulwig  dealt in potions and
drugs and worse.

Harmocohl Dripnose had most recently seen two men conveying a sizeable burden to
the lovely gardened home of Kurd.  Harmocohl's impression was that the two  were
hood-cloaked Hell Hounds.

Hell Hounds were elite Imperial guardsmen and did not deal with such as  Stulwig
or Kurd. Indeed, at least one of them hated Kurd. Hardly likely that Hell Hounds
would deliver a human package to  him. Unless there was someone they  hated more
than the dark experimenter.

Tempus was missing.

The word was out  that Jubal heroically sold  no more human merchandise  to Kurd
the vivisectionist... a man with a Rankan accent.

Why would such  as Jubal cut  off such a  source of revenue?  For moral reasons,
because Kurd did evil  things to people? Hardly.  Because Jubal had made  a deal
with other enemies  of Tempus? Zaibar  and Razkuli, perhaps?  Because Tempus was
now in the mysterious experimenter's foul and reeking hands, perhaps?

In an ugly dark stenchy room Hanse  learned more of Kurd and his business.  Kurd
claimed  to  be   dedicated  to  the   god  Science.  Medicine.   That  required
experimentation. But  Kurd was  not content  to experiment  with the wounded and
victims of accidents. The pallid fellow created his own. And, Hanse thought with
rather more than distaste,  Kurd could occupy himself  for a life time  with one
whose wounds - Hanse  suspected and thought he knew - healed  with inhuman speed
and  completeness.  Make   that superhuman,  or  preternatural.   Tempus call-me
-Thales was a man of war who  had participated in many battles. Yet  there  were
no scars on the man. Not one.

Tempus/Thales.

'You, I own, can call  me anytime,' he had told  Hanse, and 'my friend', he  had
called Hanse, and 'Just tell me not to call you friend', he had dared Hanse. And
Hanse had not been able to  tell him that, thus revealing and  silently replying
that he was  close on to  desperate for friends,  a friend; for  someone to care
about him. For someone to care about.

Hanse sprawled supine on his bed in  an upstairs room in the heart of  the Maze,
and he pondered what he had learned. He rose to pace and chew his full lower lip
and ponder, with his soul and heart and longing all naked in his eyes so that it
was good no one was  there to see, for Hanse  wanted others to see only  what he
deliberately projected.

All I need do is  report all this to  KUt-to Kadakithis, he thought.  The Prince
Governor who had begun his term here  by announcing that there would be law  and
order  and  safety  for  citizens  and  had  hanged,  among  others,  one Cudget
Swearoath, mentor (and father image?) to Hanse. The P-G did not like Tempus (and
father image?) to Hanse.

It was all  Hanse need do.  Just report what  he had learned  and now suspected.
Then it was up to  Kadakithis. He had the power  and the resources. The men  and
the swords. The savankh.

Surely that was as far as Hanse's responsibility extended, to Kadakithis and  to
Tempus. If he had any responsibility to that krff-snorting bully.

And... suppose H.R.H. Kadakithis, P-G, did  nothing? Or if his Hell Hounds,  the
charming Razkuli and  Zaibar, received their  orders but only  pretended to act?
Did not Rankans protect  their own? Did not  soldiers obey authority? Was  there
not honour among those thieving over-Lords?

If not, then Hanse's world would  be a-teeter. Despite his pretences  there  had
to be   trust and   some sort   of order,   didn't there,   and trustworthiness?
Hanse frowned  and looked about  almost  wildly. An  animal in a cage  it feared
but could not escape,  yet also feared what lay beyond the  bars. Even the spawn
of shadows did not want to  live in a world that was askew and  a teeter. If  it
existed, if  the world was truly a  thing of Chance and Chaos,  he preferred not
to know.  Fighting it,  he had  learned to  trust Tempus.  He had  been/orce(/to
trust   Kadakithis, because   he was   down a   well up   at Eaglenest.   Later,
disbelieving and  resisting, he  had learned  that he  could trust  the  Rankan.
That  disturbed his  haven of  cynicism and  was hard  to admit.  But was    not
cynicism merely a mask on an idealist seeking more, seeking perfection,  seeking
disproof of his cynical assumptions?

Far better just to report  what I know and leave  it at that and go  on about my
business. That would be enough. Tempus already owed him a debt, anyhow, and  had
promised him a service.

Shadowspawn began collecting his materials  for a night of stealth,  of breaking
and entering. It was  a thief's business and  these were the tools.  Yet he knew
that he was not preparing for theft.

You are a  fool, Hanse, he  told himself with  a curse in  Shalpa's name, and he
agreed. And he continued with what he was doing.

At the door he stopped, blinking. He  looked back with a frown. Only now  did he
remember the look Mignureal  had given him just  two hours ago, and  her strange
words. They meant nothing  and connected to nothing.  'Oh, Hanse,' she had  said
with a strange intensity  on her girlish face.  'Hanse - take the  crossed brown
pot with you.'

'With me where?'

But she had to flee, for her glowering mother was calling.

Now Hanse stared at the brown crock with the etched pair ofYs. Mignureal did not
know about it. She could not.  Mignureal had mentioned it specifically! She  was
Moonflower's daughter ... Name  of the Shadowed One,  she must have some  of the
power too!

Hanse turned back to  pick up that well-stoppered  container, a fired pot  a bit
larger than a soldier's canteen. Why. Mignureal? Why, Lord I'Is?

He had  acquired it  months ago,  easily and  quickly, without  knowing what  it
contained. Mignureal had never seen it  and could not know about this  container
of quicklime. She could not know where  he was going this night for he  had only
just  decided  (and  that  without  quite  admitting  it  to  himself);  she was
Moonflower's daughter...

Stupid, cumbersome, senseless, he thought while he slipped the crock into a good
oilskin bag he had lifted  in the Bazaar. He secured  it to his belt so  that it
rested on  one buttock.  And he  touched the  sandal of  Thufir tacked above the
door, and went forth.

The white blaze of  the sun had hours  since become yellow in  its daily waning,
and then orange. Now  it squatted low and  seemed to spray streamers  of crimson
across the darkening sky. It did not look at all like blood, Hanse told himself.
Besides, soon it would be dark and his friends would be everywhere, in black and
indigo and charcoal. The shadows.

I could use a good sword,  the shadow thought, blending into another  shadow. An
eerie feeling still lay  on him, from that  business with Mignureal. Surely  not
even Kurd deserved quicklime! This long 'knife' from the Ilbarsi Hills is a good
tool, he thought, to keep his mind on sensible, practical matters. But it's time
I had a good sword.

I'll have to try and steal one.

'Thou shalt  have a  sword,' a  voice said  sonorously inside  his head,  a lion
within the shadowed corridors of his mind, ';/ thou free'st my valued and  loyal
ally. Aye, and a fine sheath for it, as well. In silver!'

Hanse stopped. He was still and dark as the shadow of a tree or a wall of stone.
He was good at it; six minutes ago four cautious people had passed close  enough
to touch him, and never knew he was there.

I want  nothing of  you, incestuous  god of  Ranke, he  thought, almost speaking
while a thousand ants  seemed at play along  his spine. Tempus serves  you. I do
not and will not.

Yet you do this  night, seeking him, that  silent voice that was  surely the god
Vashanka's said. And a cloud ate the moon.

No! I serve - I mean... I do not...  No!... Tempus is my... my... I go to aid  a
fr- man who might help me! Leave me  and go to him, jealous god of Ranke!  Leave
Sanctuary to my patron Shalpa  the Swift, and Our Lord  Ils. Ils, Ils, 0 Lord of
a Thousand Eyes, why is it not You who speaks to me?

There was no reply. Clouds rolled  and they seemed dark men astride  dark horses
that loped with manes and long tails aflow. Hanse felt a sudden chill absence of
that presence  in his  mind. In  a few  seconds he  was praying  not to gods but
cursing himself for giving heed to the delusions of a dark night, a night  badly
ruled by a moon pale  as a Rankan concubine and  now covered like the whore  she
was. The Swift-footed One ruled this night.

And Hanse went on, not  in shadows now for there  were no shadows; all the  land
was one vast  shadow. Out of  Sanctuary. Past lovers  who neither saw  nor heard
this son  of Shalpa  the Shadowed  One. On,  to the  beautifully tended  gardens
surrounding the house of a  pasty-faced walking skeleton called Kurd  and worse.
The little crescent of moon pretended to return. It was only a ghost  struggling
weakly against clouds like restless shadows blotting the sky.

The  well-tended, scented  gardens provided  a pleasant  if un-needed  cover.  A
gliding  anthropomorphic shadow  amid herbaceous  shapes like  looming  shadows.
Hanse went right up to the house. It too was dark.

No one  wants to  visit Kurd.  No one  considers trying  to steal from Kurd. Why
should  it  not be  easy,  then? Kurd  must  think he  needs  no precautions  or
defenders!

Still, he  kept his  lips over  his teeth  when he  smiled. He  glided into  the
fragrant shrubs, odd  deciduous shrubs with  long thin branchlets,  set up close
against  Kurd's  house, exulting  in  how simple  it  was, and  then  the bush's
trailing tendrils moved, rustling, and  turned, and  twined, and clutched.   And
clamped. And   Shadowspawn understood  then that  Kurd was  not without exterior
defences.

Even as  he struggled  - fruitlessly,  against frutescence  - he  knew that  the
knowledge was gained too late. Whether this thing was bent on strangling him  or
twisting his limbs until they broke or merely holding him until someone came, it
was more horribly  effective than human  guards or three  watchdogs. Amid silent
rustling horror Hanse tugged at the tendril more slender than a brooch-pin,  and
only cut his fingers. His knife  he only dulled, sawing at a  purposeful tendril
that gave but refused to be cut. And they moved, twining, rustling,  insinuating
themselves between his arms and body and around his legs and arms and torso  and
-throat!

That one he fought until his fingers bled. It was relentless. Oye gods, no,  no,
not like  this -  he was  going to  die, silently  strangled by  a damned skinny
plant's tendril!

He was, too. His 'N-' disposed of his last breath. He could not draw another. As
his eyes started to bulge and a dull hum commenced to invade his ears on the way
to becoming  a roar  and then  eternal silence,  it occurred  to him that Kurd's
garden could do  more than strangle  him. If it  continued to tighten,  it would
slice in and in until it beheaded a strangled corpse.

Hanse fought with all his strength  and the added power of desperation.  As well
have resisted the  tide, or the  sand of the  desert. His movements  became more
restricted as his limbs were more and more constricted. Dizziness began to build
like storm clouds and the hum rose to the roar of a gale.

So did the clouds above, and great big drops of water commenced to fall from the
laden sky. That was just as eerie and impossible, for rain in Sanctuary fell  in
accord with the season,  and this was not  that season. The land  was weeks away
from the time called  Lizard Summer, when lizards  fried or were said  to fry in
their own juices, out on the desert.

What matter? Plants loved rain. And this  one loved to kill. And it was  killing
Hanse,  who  was  losing  consciousness and  feeling  while  his  hearing became
restricted to the roar inside his head. More rain  fell and Hanse,  dying, tried
to swallow  and could  not and  did what he thought he could never do: he  began
to give up.

Memory came like a white flash of  late summer lightning. He heard her words  as
clearly as he had hours ago. 'Hanse - take the crossed brown pot with you.'

Even that blazing flare  of hope seemed too  late, for how could  his bound arms
detach the  bag from  his belt,  open it,  open the  crock inside, and give this
predatory plant a message it might understand?

Answer: he could not.

He could, however, dying,  jerk his forearm four  or five inches. He  did, again
and again, breathless, dying, losing consciousness but still moving,  puncturing
the leather bag again and again and  banging the point of his knife off  the pot
which was smooth, glazed, well made, and 0 damn it all too damned hard\

It broke. Shards punched through knife  holes and widened them to let  quicklime
spill down  in a  candent stream.  Hanse was  sure it  hissed in the moist grass
about the  moist base  of the  strangler plant  - but  Hanse could not hear that
hissing or anything else save the roar  of a surf more powerful than life  could
withstand.

He slumped, dead now with streamers of caustic steam rising above his legs - and
a suddenly frenetic  shrub began waving  and snapping its  tendrils about as  if
caught by the very Compass Bag itself, whence issues the wind of every direction
at once. In those whipping throes it  not only released its prey, it hurled  him
several feet backwards. He  lay sprawled, away from  the plant and clear  of the
smoking corrosive death  about its base,  and the soles  of his buskins  smoked.
Rain pelted his face and he lay still, still, while the killer plant died.

It was not  raining in Sanctuary  but out of  a clear night  sky came a sizzling
bolt that  hardly  rocked  the  structure  that  grounded  it.  The  graven name
VASHANKA,  however, abruptly  disappeared from  the  facade  of that  structure,
which  was the Governor's Palace.


4

Oh damn, but my damned head aches!

Pox and plague, that's rain on my face and I'm getting soaked!

Holy cess- I'm alive!

None of these thoughts prompted Hanse to move, not for a longish while. Then  he
tried opening his  mouth to let  rain assuage a  sore throat, and  choked on the
fifth or sixth drop. He sat up hurriedly. His grunt was not from his head, which
felt fat and swollen and stuffed  to bursting. He rolled swiftly leftward  off a
source of sharper pain. He had been lying on his back. Under him, thonged to his
belt, had been the ruins of a nice leathern bag of broken pottery.

If I don't bleed to death I'll be picking pieces of pottery out of my tail for a
week!

That thought made him angry and with  a low groan he rose to glare  triumphantly
on the faintly smoking remnant of a destroyed shrub. Its neighbour looked almost
as bad. Shadowspawn took no chances with it. Avoiding shrubs and indeed anything
herbaceous that was larger than a blade of grass, he went to the nearest window.
Just as he completed  his slow slicing of  the sheet of pig's  bladder stretched
over the opening, he heard the awful sound from within. A groan, long and wavery
and hideous. Hanse went all over gooseflesh and considered heading for home.

He did  not. He  peeled aside  the ruined  window and  peered into  a dark  room
containing  neither  bed nor  person.  Mindful of  his  punctured and  lacerated
buttock, he went in. There was nothing to do about his head. He had, after  all,
been strangled  to death.  Or come  so close  that the  difference wasn't  worth
considering -save  that he  was alive,  which was  absolutely all the difference
that mattered.

After a long measured while of standing frozen, listening, staring in effort  to
make his eyes see, he moved. He  heard nothing. No groan, no movement, no  rain.
The moon was back. It was not in line with the window, but it was up there and a
little light sneaked in to aid a thief.



He found a wall, a jamb. Squatted, then went lower, wincing at rearward pain, to
ensure that no light  showed under the door.  The latch was a  simple press-down
hook.  He took  his time  depressing it.  He took  more time  in slowly,  slowly
pulling open the door. It revealed a corridor or short hall.

While he wondered whether to go  right or leftward, that ghastly sound  of agony
came again. This time a pulpy mumble underlay the moaning groan, and once  again
Hanse felt the icy, antsy touch of gooseflesh.

The sound came from his right. He slipped his knife back into its sheath, patted
other sheathed knives, and undid the thong at his belt to get the bag off.  That
hurt, as a  shard of pottery  emerged from his  clothing, and him.  That hand he
moved very slowly, mindful of the clink of broken pottery. He squinted before he
glanced  back,  because  he  did  not want  his  enlarged  pupils  to  shrink.

The window showed a pretty night,  small-mooned but dark of sky, without  clouds
or rain. Without even knowing that the rain had been confined to Kurd's grounds,
Shadowspawn shivered. Did gods exist? Did gods help?

Hanse took a long step into the corridor and turned right. The bag swung at  the
end of its thong from his right hand. Just in case someone popped up, that might
make him  look less  deadly: anyone  sensible would  assume him  to be  normally
right-handed.

As he reached the end of the hall with a big door ahead and another on his left,
someone popped up. The side door  opened and light rushed forth. It  flared from
the oil lamp in the hand of a gnome-like man who wore only a long ungirt  tunic;
a nightshirt. 'Here -' he began and  Hanse said 'Here yourself and hit him  with
the wet, rent bag of broken pottery. Since it struck the fellow in the face,  he
moaned and let go the  lamp to rush both hands  to . his bloodied face.  'Damn,'
Hanse said, watching hot oil slosh on to the man's tunic and bare legs and feet.
It also splashed  wall and door  and ran along  the floor, burning.  At the same
time, a third groan of unendurable agony rose behind the other door, the big one
still closed.

'Master!' Hanse screeched, high-voiced. 'FIRE!' And he shoved the squatty fellow
backwards, kicked  the burning  lamp in  after him,  and yanked  the door  shut.
Instantly he attacked the other one, and soon entered Hell.

Part of a man  lay on a table,  a short skinny fellow.  He was even shorter  and
skinnier now,  bereft of  both legs  and both  arms, all  his hair, and his left
nipple with part  of the pectoral.  Even as Hanse  shuddered, he knew  there was
only one form of rescue for this wretch. Ignoring the shining sharp  instruments
Kurd used, Hanse drew  the arm-long blade those  crazies up in the  Ilbars Hills
called a knife,  got his best  two-handed grip, and  struck with all  his might.
Blood gushed and Hanse clamped his  teeth against vomit. He had to  strike again
to  complete the  job. Now  only a  torso lay  on the  table, and  a  shuddering
Shadowspawn clung to the weapon as  he squinted around a chamber full  of tables
and thoughtfully provided with graded runnels in the floor, for the carrying off
of blood.

'Thales?'

Two groans replied. One of them ended with 'help', weak as a kitten. It was  not
Tempus's voice, but Hanse went to that table.

'He - he - he's cut  off my right arm and...  and three fingers of my-my  1-1-le
eft hannnd ... just 10 ...  just to...' An enormous bodyshaking shudder  refused
to let the man finish.

'You do not bleed. Your legs? Feet?' Hanse was squinting without really  wanting
to see.

'I -I - they ... there...'

'Think,' Shadowspawn  said, swallowing  hard. 'I  can cut  these straps  or your
throat. Think, and choose.' He started to turn away.

'I am ... ali-i-ive ... I can wa-a-alk...'

Hanse sliced off the man's restraining straps. 'I seek Tempus.'

'You seek death here, thief!' a voice said, and light flooded the chamber.

Hanse didn't  pause to  reply or  look to  see who  bore the  light. He  turned,
plucking forth a guardless knife like a leaf of steel, and threw. Only then  did
he really look at the man in  the doorway; throw once to disconcert, the  second
time with aim. Lean and more than  lean  the man was, pallid  skin taut.  A  man
in a  voluminous nightshirt, a  man to get  a chill from a south wind in June. A
man who held a  cocked crossbow in one   hand, awkwardly, and a  closed  lamp or
lanthorn in  the other, sleeve sliding  back to show an arm of bone plated  with
parchment. Kurd.

He was ducking the  whizzing knife that missed  by several inches. The  lanthorn
Swung wildly, splashing lunatic flashes of yellow light off walls and floor  and
tables with ghastly stains. The doke should have put the light down first, Hanse
thought, plucking out  another sliver of  sharp steel. With  both hands on  that
little crossbow Kurd might be dangerous. Instead his arm was nailed to the  door
by a knife that caught cloth but only raked skin - there was no flesh - so  that
the monster cried  out more in  fear than in  pain. The crossbow  hit the floor,
thunked, and sent its bolt thunk-twanging into a wall or a table leg or -  Hanse
didn't care.

'I'm here for Tempus, butcher. Just stand there and provide light. Move and I'll
throw again.' He showed Kurd a third bright blade, sheathed it. 'You'd look good
with another navel, anyhow.' Then he went to the source of the third groan. 'Oh,
oh gods, oh, oh gods, why is this allowedT

No  god answered  the anguished  query torn  from Shadowspawn  by the  sight  of
Tempus.

Big blond  Tempus answered,  scarless and  armless, and  the answer  came from a
mouth without a tongue. He managed to make Hanse understand that three pins were
stuck into each stump. Hanse steeled himself to pull them out before turning  to
gush vomit on to the grooved floor of Kurd's laboratory of torment, and  whirled
back to send  such a glare  at the vivisectionist  that Kurd shivered  and stood
still as a statue, lanthorn held high.

Hanse cut Tempus loose and helped him sit up. The big man did not bleed. He bore
various cuts, all of which looked old. They were not. He made stomach and  heart
wrenching sounds, ghastly  noises that Hanse  interpreted as 'I'll  heal', which
was just as ghastly. What was this man?

'Can you walk?'

More noises.  Repeated. Again.  Hanse thought  he understood,  and bent to look.
Yes. Minus some toes, Tempus had said.  He was. Three. No, four. The middle  one
was gone from the left foot

'Thales, there's only  me and I  can't carry you.  I freed another  and he can't
help. What shall I do?'

It took Tempus a long while to make him understand, trying to form words without
a  tongue, and  once Kurd  moved. Hanse  turned to  see the  other freed  wretch
fleeing past the  vivisectionist. Hanse threatened  and Kurd froze.  He held the
lantern in a quivering hand at the end of a wavering arm.

Strap Kurd to a table, Tempus had said. Where's servant?

Kurd answered that one, once  he had a knife at  his flat gut. His gardener  and
sole retainer was unconscious.

'Oh,' Hanse said, 'he'll  want to be bound,  then,' and worked the  blade out of
sleeve and door. With a knife in either hand, he gestured. 'Hang the lanthorn.'

'You can't -'

Hanse poked him with sharp steel. 'I can. Run complain to the Prince-Governor as
soon as you can. You can also die  now, which would be a shame. But I'll  try to
stick you in the belly, low, just deep enough so you'll be a day or three  about
dying. Of gangrene, maybe. Hang that lanthorn, monster!'

Kurd did, on the hook that was, naturally enough, beside the door. He turned  to
meet Hanse's  foot driving  straight up  between his  skinny shanks. It impacted
with a jar.

'Something for your balls, if you have one,' Hanse said, and didn't even  glance
at the man who sank all bulge-eyed and gasping to his knees, with both hands  in
the predictable  position. Hanse  hurried to  where the  gardener lay,  not even
covered by  the blanket  his master  had used  to smother  the fire. By the time
Hanse finished trussing  him with strips  of his nightshirt,  the gnomish fellow
would starve before he freed himself.

Minutes later his  master was strapped  to one of  his own tables.  Hanse gagged
him, because Kurd had left off threatening to plead and make the most ridiculous
promises. Hanse returned to Tempus.

'They couldn't get loose for a roomful  of gold, Thales. Now how in the  name of
every god am I to get you out of here and back to town, friend?'

Tempus required five minutes and more to make himself understood. Don't. Lay  me
back. I'll heal. The toes first. Tomorrow I'll be able to walk. Wine?

Hanse laid him back.  Hanse fetched wine and  blankets and some sort  of gruelly
pudding. Knowing that Tempus hated  his helplessness, Hanse fed him,  helped him
guzzle about a gallon of wine,  arranged him, covered him, checked Kurd  and his
servant, made sure the house was locked, and roamed it.

Surgeon's tools, a bag of coins, and a pile of bedding he piled outside the door
to the chamber of  scientific experimentation. He would  not lie in a  monster's
bed, or on one of those tables! He slept, at last, on the floor. On bedding from
the gardener's chamber, not Kurd's. He wanted nothing of Kurd's.

Valuable knives and the bag of money were different.

He awoke  at dawn,  looked in  on three  sleeping men,  marvelled, and left that
place that was nine times more horrible by day. He found a sausage,  considered,
and chose  flatbread instead.  Only the  gods and  Kurd knew  what sort  of meat
comprised that sausage. In a  shed Hanse found a cart  and a mule. He had  to do
some chopping and some  seating. At last he  got Tempus out of  the ruined house
and into the  cart padded with  hay. Hanse covered  him amid shudders.  Tempus's
cuts looked days older, nearly healed.

'Would you like a few fingers or nose or something of Kurd to accompany you  out
of here, Thales?'

Almost, Tempus frowned. '

'0,' he said,  and Hanse  knew it was a, no.   'You want to, uh, leave  them for
... later?' Tempus's reply was almost a yes, for me.

Hanse got him out of  there. He used much of  Kurd's money to buy the  place and
services of a  tongueless, nearly blind  old woman, along  with some soft  food,
wine, blankets  and cloak,  and he  went away  from them  with a  few coins  and
hideous memories.

The coins bought him expensive treatment  from a leech who dared not  chuckle or
comment as he cleaned and bandaged a buttock with multiple lacerations, which he
said would heal beautifully.

After  that Hanse  was sick  in his  room for  the better  part of  a week.  The
remaining three coins bought him anaesthetic in the form of strong drink.

For another  week he  feared that  he would  encounter Tempus  on the  street or
someplace, but he did not. After that, amid rumours of some sort of insurrection
somewhere near, he  began to fear  that he would  never see Tempus,  and then of
course he did see him. Healed and scarless. Hanse went home and threw up.

He traded a few things for more  strong drink, and he got drunk and  stayed that
way  for a  while. He  just didn't  feel like  stealing, or  facing Tempus,   or
Kadakithis either. He did dream,  of two gods and a  girl of sixteen or so.  Ils
and Shalpa and Mignureal. And quicklime.



THE RHINOCEROS AND THE UNICORN

by Diana L. Paxson

'So why did you come  back?' Gilla's shrill retort interrupted  Lalo's 'attempts
to explain  why he  had not  been home  the night  before. 'Has  every tavern in
Sanctuary shown you the door?' She planted her fists on her spreading hips,  the
meaty flesh on her  upper arms quivering below  the short sleeves of  her shift,
and glared at him.

Lalo stepped backwards, caught his heel  on the leg of his easel,  and clattered
to the floor in a tangle of splintering wood and skinny limbs. The baby began to
cry. While Lalo gasped  for breath, Gilla took  a long stride to  the cradle and
clutched the child to her breasts, patting him soothingly. Echoes of their older
children's quarrels with their playmates drifted from the street below, mingling
with the clatter of a cart and  the calls of vendors hawking their wares  in the
Bazaar.

'Now see  what you've  done!' said  Gilla when  the baby  had quieted. 'Isn't it
enough  that  you bring  home  no bread?  If  you can't  earn  an honest  living
painting, why don't you turn to thievery like everyone else in this dungheap  of
a town?' Her  face, reddened by  anger and the  heat of the  day, swam above him
like a mask of the demon-goddess Dyareela at Festival time.

At least  I have  that much  honour left!  Lalo bit  back the words, remembering
times, when one of his merchant patrons had refused to pay, that the limner  had
let fall the location of rich pickings while drinking in the Vulgar Unicorn. And
if, thereafter, one of his less reputable acquaintances chose to share with  him
a few  anonymous coins,  surely honour  did not  require him  to ask whence they
came.                                 -

No, it had not been honour that kept him honest, thought Lalo bitterly, but fear
of bringing shame to Gilla and the children, and a rapidly deteriorating  belief
in his own artistic destiny.

He struggled  up on  one elbow,  for the  moment too  dispirited to stand. Gilla
sniffed in exasperation, laid down the child and stalked to the other end of the
single room in the tenement which served as kitchen and chamber for the  family,
and, too rarely, as the painter's studio.

The three-legged stool groaned as Gilla sat down, set a small sack on the table,
and began with ostentatious precision to shell peas into a bowl. Late  afternoon
sunlight shafted  through the  shutters, lending  an illusory  splendour to  the
tarnished  brocade  against  which  his models  used  to  pose,  and leaving  in
obscurity  the  baskets of  soiled  clothing which  the  wives of  the  rich and
respectable (terms which were, in Sanctuary, roughly synonymous) had  graciously
given to Gilla to wash.

Once, Lalo  would have  rejoiced in  the play  of light  and shadow, or at least
reflected ironically on  the relationship between  illusion and reality.  But he
was too familiar with the poverty the shadows hid - the sordid truth behind  all
his fantasies. The only place he now saw  visions was at the bottom of a jug  of
wine.

He got up stiffly, brushing ineffectually  at the blue paint smeared across  the
old stains on his tunic. He knew  that he should clean up the pigments  spilling
across the floor, but why try to save paint when no one wanted his pictures?

By now the regulars would be drifting into the Vulgar Unicom. No one would  care
about his clothing there.

Gilla looked  up as  he started  towards the  door, and  the light  restored her
greying hair to its former gold, but she did not speak. Once, she would have run
to kiss her husband good-bye, or railed  at him to keep him home. Only,  as Lalo
stumbled down  the stairs,  he heard  behind him  the vicious  splatter of  peas
hitting the cracked glaze of the bowl.

Lalo shook his head and took another sip of wine, carefully, because the tankard
was almost empty now.  'She used to be  beautiful...' he said sadly.  'Would you
believe that she was like Eshi, bringing spring back into the world?' He  peered
muzzily through the shadows of the Vulgar Unicorn  at Cappen  Varra, trying   to
superimpose  on the   minstrel's saturnine features  the dimly remembered  image
of the golden-haired maiden he  had courted almost twenty years ago.

But he could only remember the scorn in Gilla's grey eyes as she had glared down
at him that afternoon. She was right.  He was despicable - wine had bloated  his
belly as his ginger hair had thinned, and the promises he had once made her were
as empty as his purse.

Cappen Varra tipped back his dark head and laughed. Lalo caught the gleam of his
white teeth in the guttering lamplight,  a flicker of silver from the  amulet at
his throat, the elegant  shape of his head  against the chiaroscuro of  the Inn.
Dim figures beyond him  turned at the sound,  then returned to the  even murkier
business that had brought them there.

'Far be it from me to argue with a fellow-artist -' said Cappen Varra, 'but your
wife reminds  me of  a rhinoceros!  Remember when  you got  paid for  decorating
Master Regli's foyer,  and we went  to the Green  Grape to celebrate?  I saw her
when she came after you... Now I know why you do your serious drinking here!'

The minstrel was still laughing. Suddenly angry, Lalo glared at him.

'Can you afford to mock me? You are still young. You think it doesn't matter  if
you tailor your songs to the taste  of these fleas in the armpit of  the Empire,
because you still carry the real poetry  in your heart, along with the faces  of
the beautiful women you wrote it for! Once already you have pawned your harp for
bread. When you are my age, will you  sell it for the price of a drink,  and sit
weeping because the  dreams still live  in your heart  but you have  no words to
describe them anymore?'

Lalo reached blindly  for his tankard,  drained it, set  it down on  the scarred
table. Cappen Varra was  drinking too, the laughter  for a moment gone  from his
blue eyes.

'Lalo - you are no fit companion for a drinking man!' said the minstrel at last.
'I will end up as sodden as you are if I stay here!' He  rose, slinging his harp
case over his shoulder, adjusting the  drape of his cloak to  a  jauntier flare.
'The Esmeralda's back  in port from  Ilsig and points  north -  I'm  off to hear
what news she  brings.  Good evening.  Master Limner -  I wish  you  joy of your
philosophy ...'

Lalo remained where he was. He supposed he should go too, but where? If he  went
home he would only have to face Gilla again. Idly he began to draw on the table,
his paint-stained forefinger daubing from a  little pool of spilt wine. But  his
memory had sought  the past, when  he and Gilla  were painfully saving  the gold
pieces  that would  deliver them  from Sanctuary.  He remembered  how they   had
planned what they would do with the wealth sure to come once the lords of  Ranke
recognized  his talent,  the images  of transcendent  beauty he  had dreamed  of
creating when he  no longer had  to worry about  tomorrow's bread. But  instead,
they had had their first child.

He looked down,  and realized that  his finger had  been clumsily outlining  the
pure profile of the girl  Gilla had been so long  ago. His fist smashed down  on
the table, obscuring the lines in a splatter of wine, and he groaned and hid his
face in his hands.

'Your cup is empty ...' The deep voice made a silence around them.

Lalo sighed and looked up. 'So is my purse.'

Broad shoulders  blocked the  light of  the hanging  lamp, but  as the  newcomer
turned  to shrug  off his  cloak his   eyes glowed  red, like  those of  a  wolf
surprised by a peasant's torch at night. Beyond him, Lalo saw the tapster's  boy
slithering among the crowded tables towards the new customer.

'You're the fellow  who did the  sign outside, aren't  you?' said the  man. 'I'm
getting transferred, and a picture for my girl to remember me by would be  worth
the price of a drink to me...'

'Yes. Of course,' answered Lalo. The  tapster's boy stopped by their table,  and
his companion ordered a jug of cheap red wine. The limner reached into his pouch
for his  roll of  drawing paper,  weighted it  with the  tankard to keep it from
curling up again.  The stopper of  his  ink bottle  had  dried stuck,  and  Lalo
swore as  he struggled to open it. He picked up his pen.

Swiftly he  sketched his  first impression  of the  man's hulking  shoulders and
tightly curled  hair. Then  he looked  up again.  The features  blurred and Lalo
blinked, wondering if he  had already had too  much wine. But the  hollow in his
belly cried out for more, and  the tapster's boy was already returning,  ducking
beneath  a thrown  knife and  detouring around  the resulting  struggle  without
spilling a drop.

'Turn towards the lamp -  if I'm to draw you  I must have some light!'  muttered
Lalo.  The  man's eyes  burned  at him  from  beneath arched  brows.  The limner
shivered, forced himself  to focus on  the shape of  the head and  noted how the
lank hair receded across the prominent bones of the skull.

Lalo looked down at his drawing. What trick of the light had made him think  the
fellow's hair curled? He cross-hatched over the first outline to merge it into a
shadowy background and began to sketch the profile again. He felt those  glowing
eyes burning him. His hand jerked and he looked up quickly.

The nose was misshapen now, as if some drunken potter had pressed too hard  into
the clay. Lalo stared at his model  and threw down his pen. The face  before him
bore no resemblance to the one he had drawn!

'Go away!' he said hoarsely. 'I can't do what you ask of me -1 can't do anything
anymore ...' He began to shake his head and could not stop.

'You need a drink.' Pewter clinked against the tabletop.

Lalo  reached for  the refilled  tankard and  drank deeply,  not caring  anymore
whether he would  be able to  earn it. He  felt it bum  all the way  down to his
belly, run tingling along his veins to barrier him from the world.

'Now, try again,' commanded  the stranger. 'Turn your  paper over, look well  at
me, then draw what you see as quickly as you can.' •

For a long moment Lalo stared at the oddly attenuated features of the man before
him, then bent over his work.  For several minutes only the scratching  of swift
penstrokes competed with the  clamour of the room.  He must capture the  glow of
those strange eyes, for he suspected that when he looked at his companion again,
nothing but the eyes would be the same.

But what matter? He had his payment  now. With his free hand he reached  for the
mug and drank  again, shaded a  final line, then  pushed the drawing  across the
table and sat back.

'Well - you wanted it...'

'Yes.' The stranger's lips twitched. 'Everything considered, it's quite good.  I
understand  that  you  do portraits,'  he  went  on. 'Are  you  free  to take  a
commission now? Here's an  earnest of your fee  -' He reached into  the folds of
his garment, laid a gold piece  shining on the table, quickly hid  his misshapen
fingers once more.

Lalo stared,  reached out  gingerly as  if expecting  the coin  to vanish at his
touch.  Fortified by  the wine,  he could  admit to  himself how  very odd  this
episode had  been. But  the gold  was hard  and cool  and weighed heavily in his
palm. His fingers closed.

The stranger's smile stiffened. He drew back suddenly, away from the light. 'Now
I must go.'

'But the commission!' cried Lalo. 'Who is it for, and when?'

'The commission ...' the man seemed to be having trouble enunciating the  words.
'If you have the courage, come now...  Do you think that you can find  the house
of Enas Yorl?'

Lalo cringed from his snarl of laughter,  but the sorcerer did not wait for  him
to reply. He had  cast his cloak around  him and was lurching  towards the door,
and this time the shape the cloak covered was hardly human at all.

Lalo  the  limner  stood in  Prytanis  Street  before the  house  of  Enas Yorl,
shivering. With the setting of the sun, the wind off the desert had turned cold,
although there was still a greenish light in the western sky. Once he had  spent
two months trying to capture on canvas the translucent quality of that glow.

The rooftops of the city made a deceptively elegant silhouette against the  sky,
topped by  the lacy  scaffolding of  the tower  of the  Temple of  Savankala and
Sabellia nearby. Insulting to local prejudices  though  the  new  temple   might
be,  at   least  it   promised  to  be magnificent.  Lalo sighed,  wondering who
would paint the murals within -  probably some eminent artist from the  capital.
He  sighed again. If he had gone to  Ranke it might have been himself, returning
in triumph to his birthplace.

But that  consideration forced  his attention  back to  the edifice  that loomed
before him, its shadows  somehow darker than those  of the other buildings,  and
the job that he had come here to do.

Terrors coiled like basilisks in the  corners of his mind. His legs  trembled. A
dozen times during his journey across the town they had threatened to buckle  or
turn in the opposite  direction, and the wine  had been sweated out  of him long
ago.

Enas Yorl  was one  of the  darker legends  of Sanctuary,  although, for reasons
which the episode  in the Vulgar  Unicorn had amply  illustrated, he was  rarely
seen. Rumour  had it  that the  curse of  some rival  had condemned  him to  the
existence of a chameleon. But that was said to be the only limit on his power.

Had the  sorcerer's offer  been some  perverted joke,  or part  of some  magical
intrigue? I should take the gold to Cilia, he thought, it might be enough to buy
us places in an outward-bound caravan ...

But the coin  was only a  retainer for a  service he had  not yet performed, and
there was no place he could flee that would be beyond the reach of the sorcerer.
He could not  return the money  without facing Enas  Yorl, and he  could not run
away. Shaking so that he could hardly grasp the intricately wrought knocker,  he
let it fall upon the brazen surface of the door.

The  interior  of  the  building seemed  larger  than  its  outside, though  the
colourless mists that swirled around him made it hard to be certain of  anything
except the glowing red eyes of Enas Yorl. As the mists curdled and cleared, Lalo
saw that the  sorcerer was enthroned  in a carven  chair which the  artist would
have itched to examine had anyone else been sitting there. He was considering  a
slim figure in an embroidered Ilsig cloak who stood twirling a mounted globe.

Seas and continents spun  as the stranger turned,  stared at Lalo, then  back at
Enas Yorl.

'Do you mean to tell me that sot is necessary to your spell?'

It was a woman's  voice, but Lalo had  already noted the fine  bones structuring
the face beneath the scarred tanned skin and cropped hair, the wiry grace of the
body in its male attire. So might  a kitten from the Prince's harem have  looked
if it had been left to fight its way to adulthood in the alleys of the town.

Abruptly perceiving himself through the woman's eyes, Lalo straightened, acutely
aware of his stained tunic and frayed breeches, and the stubble on his chin.

'Why  do you  need a  painting?' she  asked scornfully.  'Isn't this  enough  to
purchase the use of your own powers?'  From a bag suspended around her neck  she
poured out a river  of moonlight which resolved  itself into a string  of pearls
which she cast rattling upon the stone-flagged floor.

'I could ...'  said the sorcerer  wearily. He was  smaller than he  had been, an
oddly shaped mound  in the great  chair. 'If you  had been anyone  else, I would
have given you  a spell worth  as much as  that necklace, and  laughed when your
ship  outran the  land winds  that carry  the energies  I use,  and your  beauty
became. ugliness again. The natural  tendency of things is towards  disorder, my
dear. Destruction is easy, as you know. Restoration takes more energy.'

'And your power is not great enough?' Her voice was anxious now.

Lalo averted his eyes as the sorcerer's appearance altered again. He was feeling
alternately hot with embarrassment and chill with fear. Risky as involvement  in
the public affairs of  wizards might be, to  be privy to their  personal affairs
could only bring disaster. And whatever the relationship between the  figureless
sorcerer  and the  disfigured girl  might be,  it was  obviously both  extremely
personal, and an affair.

'There is a price for everything,' replied Enas Yorl once he had stabilized.  'I
can transform  you without  aids, but  not while  continuing to  protect myself.
Jarveena, would you ask that of me?' His voice was a whisper now.

The girl shook her head. Suddenly subdued,  she let her cloak slip to the  floor
and seated herself. Lalo saw an easel beside him - had it been there before?  He
took   an involuntary   step towards   it, seeing   there a  set of  brushes  of
perfectly matched  camel's  hair,  pots of   pigment finely  ground,  a smoothly
stretched canvas -tools of a quality of which he had only been able  to dream.

'I want you to paint her,' said Enas Yorl to Lalo. 'Not as you see her now,  but
as I see her always. I want you to paint Jarveena's soul.'

Lalo stared at him  as though he had  been struck to the  heart but had not  yet
begun to feel the pain. He shook his head a little.

'You  read my  heart as  you see  the lady's  soul...' he  said with  a  curious
dignity. 'The gods alone know what I would give to be able to do what you ask of
me!'

The sorcerer smiled. His form seemed to shift, to expand, and in the blazing  of
his eyes Lalo's awareness was consumed.  / will provide the vision and  you will
provide the skill... the words echoed in Lalo's mind, and then he knew no more.

The stillness of the hour just before dawn hushed the air when Lalo again became
conscious  of  his  own identity.  The  girl  Jarveena lay  back  in  her chair,
apparently asleep. His back and  shoulder ached furiously. He stretched  out his
arm and flexed his fingers to relieve their cramping, and only then did his eyes
focus on the canvas before him.        -

Did I do that? His first reaction was one he had known before, when hand and eye
had cooperated unusually well and he had emerged from an intensive bout of  work
amazed at how close he had come to  capturing the beauty he saw. But this -  the
image of a face whose finely arched nose and perfect brows were framed by  waves
of lustrous hair, of a slenderly  curved body whose honey-coloured skin had  the
sheen of the  pearls on the  floor and whose  delicately up-tilted breasts  were
tipped with buds of dusky rose - this was that Beauty, fully realized.

Lalo looked from the picture to the girl in the chair and wept, because he could
see only blurred hints of  that beauty in her now,  and he knew that the  vision
had passed  through him  like light  through a  windowpane, leaving  him in  the
darkness once more.

Jarveena stirred and yawned, then opened one  eye.  'Is he done? I've got to  go
the Esmeralda sails on the early tide.'

'Yes,' answered Enas Yorl, his eyes glowing more brightly than ever as he turned
the easel for her to see. The painting holds my magic now. Take it with you  and
look at it as you  would look into a mirror,  and after a time it  will become a
mirror, and all will see your beauty as I see it now ...'

Shaking with fatigue and loss, Lalo sat  down on the floor. He heard the  rustle
of the  sorcerer's robes  as he  moved to  embrace his  lady, and after a little
while the sound  of the painting  being removed and  her footsteps going  to the
door. Then Lalo and Enas Yorl were alone.

'Well  ...  it  is done  ..  .'The  sorcerer's voice  was  fleshless,  like wind
whispering through dry leaves. 'Will you take your payment now?'

Lalo nodded without looking at him, afraid  to see the body to which that  voice
belonged.

'What shall it be? Gold? Those baubles  on the floor?' The pearls rattled as  if
they had been nudged by the sorcerer's current equivalent of a toe.

Yes, I will take the  gold, and Gilla and I  will go and never set  eyes on this
place again... The words were on his lips, but every dream he had ever known was
clamouring in his soul.

'Give me  the power  you forced  on me  last night!'  Lalo's voice strengthened.
'Give me the power to paint the soul!'

The laughter of  Enas Yorl began  as the whisper  in the sand  that precedes the
simoom, but it grew until Lalo was physically buffeted by the waves of  pressure
in the room. And then, after a little, there was silence again, and the sorcerer
asked, 'Are you quite sure?'

Lalo nodded once more.

'Well, that is a little thing,  particularly when you are already... when  there
is such a strong desire. I will throw  in a few extras -' he said kindly,  'some
souls for you to paint, perhaps a commission or two ...'

Lalo jerked as the sorcerer's hands closed on his head, and for a moment all the
colours in the rainbow exploded in his brain. Then he found himself on his  feet
by the door with a leather satchel in his hand.

'And the painter's gear ...' continued Enas Yorl. 'I have to thank you not  only
for a great  service, but for  giving me something  to look forward  to in life.
Master Limner, may your gift reward you as you deserve!'

And then the great  brazen door had shut  behind him, and Lalo  found himself in
the empty street, blinking at the dawn.

The desert shimmered glassily with heat, appearing as insubstantial as the mists
in the  house of  Enas Yorl,  but the  moist breath  of a fountain cooled Lalo's
cheeks. Dazed by the contrasts, the limner found himself wondering whether  this
moment, or indeed any of the past three days, were real or only the continuation
of some sorcerous dream. But  if that were so, he  thought as he turned back  to
the echoing expanse ofMolin Torchholder's veranda, he did not want to wake.

Before the first day after his adventure had passed, Lalo had received  requests
for portraits from the Portmaster's  wife and from Jordis the  stonemason, newly
enriched by  his work  on the  temple for  the Rankan  gods. In  fact the  first
sitting  was  to have  been  this morning.  But  yesterday's summons  had  taken
precedence; and so  it was that  Lalo, uncomfortable in  worn velveteen breeches
that were loose  in the shanks  and pinched his  waist, his embroidered  wedding
vest, and a  shirt which Gilla  had starched so  that it scraped  his neck every
time he turned his head, waited  to be interviewed for the honour  of decorating
Molin Torch-holder's feasting hall.

A door  opened. Lalo  heard light  footsteps above  the plash  and gurgle of the
fountain, and a young woman with precisely coiled fair hair beckoned to him.

'My Lady?' he hesitated.

'I am  the Lady  Danlis, ancilla  to the  mistress of  this house,' she answered
briskly. 'Come with me ...'

I  should  have  known,  thought  Lalo,  after  hearing  Cappen  Varra  sing her
praises/or  so  long. But  that  had been  some  time ago.  As  he followed  her
straight-backed progress along the corridor  Lalo wondered what vision had  made
Cappen fall in love with her, and why it had failed.

A startled slave  looked up and  hastily began gathering  together his rags  and
jars of wax paste as Danlis ushered Lalo through a door of gilded cedarwood into
the Hall. Lalo stopped short, taken aback by the abundance of colour and texture
in the room. Figured silken rugs littered the parquet floor; gilded grape  vines
laden with amethyst fruit twisted about the marble columns that strained against
the beamed ceiling;  and the walls  were draped with  patterned damask from  the
looms of Ranke. Lalo stared around him, wondering what could possibly be left to
decorate.

'Danlis, darling, is this the new painter?'

Lalo turned at a  rustle of silks and  saw hastening across the  carpets a woman
who was to  Danlis as an  overblown rose is  to the bud  of the flower.  She was
followed by a maid, and a fluffy dog spurted ahead of her, yapping fiercely  and
knocking over the pots of wax which the slave had set aside.

'I'm so glad  that my lord  has given me  permission to get  rid of these dreary
hangings - so  bourgeois, and as  you see, they  are quite faded  now!' The lady
went on breathlessly, her trailing skirts upsetting the pots which the slave had
just finished righting again. The maid paused behind her and began to berate the
cowering servant in low fierce tones.

'My Lady, may I  present Lalo the Limner-'  Danlis turned to the  artist, 'Lalo,
this is the Lady Rosanda. You may make your bow.'

'Will you take  long to finish  the work?' asked  the Lady. 'I  will be happy to
advise you - everyone has always complimented me on my excellent taste - I often
think that  I might  have made  an excellent  artist -  if I  had been bora into
another walk of life, that is ...'

'

'Lord  Molin's  position requires  a  worthy setting  -'  stated Danlis  as  her
mistress paused for breath. 'After the initial ... difficulties ... construction
of the new temple has proceeded smoothly. Naturally  there will  be celebrations
in honour  of its   completion. Since it would  be impious  to hold  them in the
temple, they must take place   in surroundings  which  will  demonstrate   whose
genius  is  responsible  for   the achievement which will  establish Sanctuary's
position in the Empire.'

Lady Rosanda stared  at her companion,  impressed, but Lalo  scarcely heard her,
already abstracted by consideration of the possibilities of the place. 'Has Lord
Molin decided on the subjects that I am to depict?'

'If you  are chosen  -' answered  Danlis. 'The  murals will  portray the goddess
Sabellia as Queen of the Harvest, surrounded by her nymphs. First, of course, he
will want to see your sketches and designs.'

'I  might  model for  the  Goddess ...'  suggested  Lady Rosanda,  twitching  an
improbably auburn curl over one plump shoulder and looking arch. '

Lalo swallowed. 'My Lady is too kind, but modelling is exacting work -1 wouldn't
consider  asking  someone of  your  refinement to  spend  hours posing  in  such
uncomfortable positions and  scanty attire ...'  His panic eased  into relief as
the lady simpered and smiled. His own vision of the Goddess was characterized by
a compassionate majesty which he doubted Lady Rosanda could even visualize, much
less portray. Finding a model for Sabellia would be his hardest task.

'Now that you understand the work, how much time will you require?'

'What?' Lalo forced himself to the present again.

'When can you bring us the designs?' Danlis repeated tartly.

'I must consider ... and choose my models ...' he faltered. 'It will take two or
three days.'

'Oh Lalo ...'

The limner jerked, turned, and realized that he had come all the way from  Molin
Torchholder's well-guarded  gatehouse to  the Street  of the  Goldsmiths without
conscious direction, as if his feet were under a charm to carry him home.

'My dear friend!' Puffing a little,  Sandol the rug dealer drew up  beside Lalo,
who looked at  him in bewilderment.  It had not  been 'my friend'  the last time
they met, when Sandol had refused to pay the full price for his wife's  portrait
because she said it made her look fat.

'I have wanted to tell you how  much enjoyment your painting brings us. As  they
say, a work of art is a lasting  pleasure - perhaps we ought to have a  portrait
of myself to balance my wife's. What do you say?' He wiped his brow with a large
handkerchief of purple silk.

'Well of course I would be happy - but I don't know just when

- my time may be occupied for a while ...' answered Lalo, confused.

'Yes  indeed -'  Sandol smiled  unctuously. 'I  understand that  your work  will
shortly grace a much more august residence than my own. My wife was saying  just
this morning  what an  honour it  was to  have been  painted by  the man  who is
decorating Molin Torchholder's feasting hall!'

Suddenly Lalo  understood. The  news of  his prospective  commission must be all
over  town by  now. He  suppressed a  grin of  triumph, remembering  how he  had
humbled himself to this man to get even a part of his fee. Perhaps he should  do
the picture -the rug merchant was as porcine as his lady, and they would make  a
good pair.

'Well, I must not discuss it yet...' replied Lalo modestly. 'But it is true that
I have been approached... I fear that an opportunity to serve the representative
of the gods of Ranke  must take precedence over lesser  commitments.' Interested
commentary followed them like an echo down the busy street, apprentices  telling
their masters,  silk-veiled matrons  whispering to  each other  as they tried on
rings.

'Oh indeed I do understand,' Sandol assured him fervently. 'AH I ask is that you
keep me in mind ...'

'I'll let you know,' said Lalo graciously, 'when I have time.' He increased  his
pace, leaving  the rug  merchant standing  like a  melting icicle  in the sea of
people behind him. When he had crossed  the Path of Money into  the Corridor  of
Steel, Lalo permitted  himself a discreet skip or two.

'Not only my feet but my entire life is charmed now!' he told himself. 'May  all
the gods of Ranke and Ilsig bless Enas Yorl!'

Sunshine glared  from the  whitewashed walls  around him,  flashed from polished
swords  and daggers  displayed in  the armourers'  stalls, glittered  in  myriad
points  of  light from  linked  mail. But  the  brilliance around  him  was less
dazzling than the vistas  opening to Lalo's imagination  now. He would have  not
merely a comfortable living, but riches; not only respect, but fame!  Everything
he had ever desired was within his grasp ...

Cutpurses flowed around him like shadows  as he passed through an alleyway,  but
despite the rumours,  his purse still  swung slackly, and  they drew back  again
without his having noticed them. Someone called out to him as he passed the more
modest establishments near the warehouses,  but Lalo's eyes were blinded  by his
visions.

It was  not until  his feet  had carried  him on  to the  Wideway that edged the
harbour that he realized that he  had been hailed by Farsi the  Coppersmith, who
had loaned him money when Gilla was sick after the birth of their second  child.
He thought of turning back, but surely he could visit Farsi another time. He was
too busy now.

Plans for the  new project were  boiling in his  brain. He had  to come up  with
something  that could  transcend the  rest of  Molin's decor  without trying  to
compete with its  vulgarity. Colours, details,  the interplay of  line and mass,
rippled before his  mind's eye like  a painted veil  between him and  the sordid
streets of the town.

So much  would depend  on the  models he  chose for  the figures  in the design!
Sabellia and her nymphs must display a beauty that would uplift the  imagination
even as it pleased the eye, an air at once both regal and innocent.

Lalo slipped on a  fishhead. He flailed wildly  for a moment, then  regained his
balance and stood panting and blinking in the bright sun.

'And where  will I  find such  maidens in  Sanctuary?' he  asked himself  aloud.
'Where mothers sell their daughters into whoredom as soon as their breasts begin
to show?' Even the girls who retained some outward beauty were swiftly corrupted
within. In the past,  he had found his  models among the street  singers and the
girls who eked out a weaver's paltry daylight wages on their backs, at night. He
would have to look elsewhere now.

He sighed and turned his face to  the sea. It was cooler here, and  the changing
wind brought a fresh  sea breeze to compete  with the rotting fish  odour of the
shore. The blue water sparkled like a virgin's eye.

A  woman  with a  child  in her  arms  waved to  him,  and after  a  moment Lalo
recognized Valira, come  to the shore  for an hour  or two of  sunshine with her
baby before it  was time for  her to ply  her trade with  the sailors there. She
lifted the child for him to see, and he noted with a pang that although her eyes
were painted, and glass beads glittered in her hennaed hair, her arms were still
childishly thin. He remembered  when she had been  one of his oldest  daughter's
playmates, and had often come to Lalo's house for supper when there was no  food
at her own.

He knew about the rape that  had started Valira in this profession,  the poverty
that kept her there, but her  cheerful greeting made him uncomfortable. She  had
not chosen her fate, but she could not escape it now. Her existence clouded  the
bright future he had been envisioning.

Lalo waved briefly at Valira and  then hurried on, at once relieved  and ashamed
when she did not call out to him.

He continued along the  Wideway, past the wharves  where the foreign ships  were
berthed, pulling at their moorings  like a nobleman's horses tethered  outside a
peasant's sty. Some of  the merchants had spread  out their wares on  the docks,
and  Lalo  threaded  his  way  among  knots  of  people  bickering  over prices,
exchanging insults and news  with equal good humour.  A few City Guards  lounged
against  a  piling, weariness  and  wariness mingling  in  their faces  as  they
surveyed the motley  crowd. They were  accompanied by one  of the Prince's  Hell
Hounds, his expression differing  from  theirs  only  in  that  it  became,   if
possible,  even   more supercilious when he looked at his men.

Lalo passed without stopping the abandoned wharf near Fisherman's Row which  had
become his favourite place for meditation over  the years. He had no need of  it
now - he had too much to do! Where could he find models? Perhaps he should visit
the Bazaar this afternoon. Surely he could find some honest maidens there...

He hurried up the Street of Smells  towards his home, but stopped short when  he
saw his wife hanging out laundry  in the building's courtyard, talking over  her
shoulder to someone hidden behind her. He approached cautiously.

'Did the interview go  well, dear?' asked Gilla  brightly. 'I've heard that  the
Lady Rosanda is most gracious. You're quite favoured by the ladies today -  see,
here's Mistress Zorra come to call on you...'

Lalo winced  at the  edge in  her voice,  then forgot  her as  she moved and the
caller came towards him. He received in quick succession an impression of a trim
figure, a complexion that glowed like the roses of Eshi, copper-bright hair  and
a pair of dazzling eyes.

He  swallowed.  The last  time  he had  seen  Mistress Zorra  was  when she  had
accompanied her father to collect their rent, which was three months overdue. He
tried to remember whether they had paid last month's rent on time.

'Oh,  Master Lalo  - you've  no need  to look  so apprehensive!'  Zorra  blushed
prettily. 'You should know that your credit is good with us after so many  years
...'

After so  much gossip  about my  new prosperity,  you mean!  he thought, but her
smile was infectious, and after all  she was not responsible for the  stinginess
of her sire.  He grinned back  at her, thinking  that she was  like a breath  of
spring in this summer-parched street. Like a nymph ...

'Perhaps you can help  me to maintain my  credit, mistress!' he replied.  'Would
you like to be one of my models for the paintings in Molin Torchholder's Hall?'

How  delightful it  was to  be the  dispenser of  largesse, thought  Lalo as  he
watched Zorra dance away down the street. She had been painfully eager to  break
all previous engagements so that she could come to him the next day.

Was that how Enas Yorl felt when he gave me my desire? he wondered, and wondered
also (but only for a moment) why, in doing so, the sorcerer had laughed.

'But why  can't I  pose for  you in  Molin Torchholder's  house?' Zorra  pouted,
glanced at Lalo to see  if he was watching her  take off her petticoat, and  let
the garment slip to the floor.

'If my patrons  could detach their  walls and sent  them here for  decoration, I
doubt  they  would  let  even me  in  the  door...'  replied Lalo  abstractedly,
transferring paint  from paintpots  to palette  in the  precise order  he always
used. 'Besides,  I'll need  to make  several studies  from each  model before  I
decide on the final design...'

Morning  sunlight shone  cheerfully on  the clean-swept  floor, cleared  now  of
strangers'  laundry, gleamed  on Lalo's  palette knife  and glowed  through  the
petals of the flowers he had given to Zorra to hold.

'That's right -' he said, draping a wisp of gauze around her hips and  adjusting
the angle of  her arms. 'Hold  the flowers as  if you were  offering them to the
Goddess.' She twitched  as he touched  her, but his  awareness of her  flesh was
already giving way to his perception other body as a form in space. 'Generally I
would do only a quick sketch or  two,' he explained, 'but this must be  complete
enough to give Lord Molin an idea of what the finished work will be like, so I'm
using colour ...'

He stepped back, seeing the picture as he had visualized it-the fresh beauty  of
the girl in the sunlight with her bright hair flowing down her back and her arms
filled with  bright flowers.  He picked  up his  brush and  took a  deep breath,
focusing on what he saw.

His awareness of the murmur of conversation at the other end of the room,  where
Gilla and their middle daughter were preparing the noon meal, faded. He did  not
turn when one of his sons came in, was shushed by his mother  and sent outdoors.
The sounds slid past  him as his mind stilled, as the tensions of the past  days
slipped away.

Now he was himself at last, serenely confident that his hand would obey his eye,
that both would reflect  the perceptions of his  soul. And he knew  that not the
commissions, but this  confidence in himself,  was the true  gift of Enas  Yorl.
Lalo dipped his brush in the paint and began to work.

The  bar  of  light had  moved  halfway  across the  floor  when  Zorra abruptly
straightened and let her flowers fall to the floor.

'This had better be worth it!' she  complained. 'My back hurts, and my arms  are
falling off.'  She flexed  her shoulders  and bent  back and  forth to  ease the
strain.

Lalo blinked, trying to orient himself. 'No,  not yet - it's not finished -'  he
began, but Zorra was already moving towards him.

'What do you mean, I can't look? It's my picture, isn't it?' She stopped  short,
staring. Lalo's eyes followed her gaze back to the picture, and appalled, he let
the brush slip from his hand.

The face that looked at him from the easel had eyes narrowed with cupidity, lips
drawn back  in a  predatory grin.  The red  hair flamed  like a fox's brush, and
somehow the rounded limbs had been distorted  so that she looked as if she  were
about to spring. Lalo shuddered, looking  from the girl to the picture  and back
again.

'You whoreson maggoty  bastard, what have  you done to  me?' She rounded  on him
furiously, then turned back to the  picture, snatched up his palette knife,  and
began to stab  at the canvas.  'That's not me!  That's hateful! You  hate women,
don't you? You hate my father, too, but just you wait! You'll be living with the
Downwinders by the time he gets through with you!'

The floor shook as Gilla charged towards them. Lalo staggered back as she thrust
between him  and the  half-naked girl,  squeezed Zorra's  wrist until the little
knife clattered to the floor.

'Get dressed, you hussy! I'll have no such language where my children can hear!'
snapped Gilla, ignoring the fact that they heard far worse every time they  went
into the Bazaar.

'And you too, you  bloated sow!' Zorra pulled  away, began to struggle  into her
clothes. 'You're too gross for even Amoli to hire -I hope you end on the streets
where you belong!' The door slammed  behind her and they heard her  clatter down
the rickety stairs.

'I hope she breaks her neck.  Her father still hasn't fixed those  stairs,' said
Gilla calmly.

Lalo bent stiffly to pick up his palette knife. 'She's right...' He took a  step
towards the mutilated picture. 'Damn him ...' he whispered. 'He tricked me -  he
knew that this would happen. May all the gods damn Enas Yorl!'

Gilla looked at  the picture and  began to laugh.  'No ... really,'  she gasped,
'it's an excellent  likeness. You only  saw her pretty  face. I know  what she's
been up to. Her fiance killed himself  when she threw him over for that  gorilla
from the Prince's guard. The vixen is out for all she can get, which the picture
makes abundantly clear. No wonder she hated it!'

Lalo slumped. 'But I've been betrayed ...'

'No. You  got what  you asked  for, poor  love. You  have painted  that wretched
girl's soul!'

Lalo  leaned on  the splintery  railing of  the abandoned  wharf, staring   with
unfocused eyes into the golden dazzle cast upon the waters by the setting sun as
if by wishing hard  enough he could become  one with that beauty  and forget his
despair. I have only to climb over this flimsy barrier and let myself/all...  He
imagined the feel of the bitter waters closing over him, and the blessed release
from pain.

Then he looked down,  and shuddered, not entirely  because of the cooling  wind.
The murky waters were littered with  obscene gobbets that had once been  part of
living things - offal flushed down the gutters from the shambles of Sanctuary to
the sea. Lalo's gorge rose at the thought of that water touching him. He  turned
away,  sank down  with his  back against  the wall  of a  shanty the   fishermen
sometimes used.

Like everything else  I see, he  thought, whatever seems  fairest is sure  to be
most foul within!

A  ship  moved  majestically  across  the  harbour,  passed  the  lighthouse and
disappeared around the point. Lalo had thought of shipping out on such a vessel,
but he was  too unskilled for  a sailor, too  frail for a  common hand. Even the
solace  of  the  taverns was  denied  to  him. In  the  Green  Grape they  would
congratulate him on the  success that was impossible  now, while the clients  at
the  Vulgar Unicorn  would try  to rob  him, and  beat him  senseless when  they
discovered his poverty. How  could he ever explain,  even to Cappen Varra,  what
had happened to him?

The planks on which he was sitting  shook beneath a heavy tread. Gilla ...  Lalo
tensed, waiting for her accusations, but  she only sighed, as if releasing  pent
hope, or fear.

'I hoped I'd find you here...' Grunting, she eased down beside him, unslung  and
handed him an earthenware pot with a narrow spout. 'Better drink this before  it
gets cold.'

He  nodded, took  a long  swallow of  fragrant herb  tea laced  with wine,  then
another, and set the pot down.

Gilla pulled  her shawl  around her,  stretched out  her legs  and settled  back
against the wall. Two gulls swooped overhead, squabbling over a piece of  flesh.
A heavy swell set  wavelets lapping against the  pilings below them, then  there
was silence again.

In the shared stillness, warmed by  the tea and by Gilla's body,  something that
had been wound tight within Lalo began to ease.

'Gilla ...' he said at last, 'what am I going to do?'

'The other two models failed?'

'They were worse  than Zorra. Then  I started the  portrait of the  Portmaster's
wife... Fortunately I got  the sketch away before  she could see it.  She looked
like her lapdog!' He drank again.

'Poor Lalo.' Gilla shook her head.  'It's not your fault that all  your unicorns
turned out to be rhinoceroses!'

He remembered the old fable about the rhinoceros who looked into a magic  mirror
and saw there a  unicorn, but it did  not comfort him. 'Is  everything beautiful
only a mask for rottenness, or is  it only that way in Sanctuary?' He  burst out
then, 'Oh  Gilla, I've  failed you  and the  children. We're  ruined, don't  you
understand? I cannot even hope anymore!'

She turned  a little,  but did  not touch  him, as  if she  understood that  any
attempt at comfort would be more than he could bear.

'Lalo ...' she cleared her throat and started again. 'It's all right - we'll get
by some way. And you haven't failed  ... you haven't failed our dream! You  made
the right choice -  don't I know that  it was me and  the children in the  first
place that kept you from what you were meant to do?

'Anyhow -' she tried to turn her  emotion to laughter, 'if worst comes to  worst
I can model  for you  -just for   you to  get the  basic lines  of  the figures,
of course,' she added  apologetically. 'After  all  these years I  doubt I  have
any flaws that you don't already know...'

Lalo set down the teapot, turned and looked at her. In the light of the  setting
sun Gilla's  face, into  which the  years had  carved so  many lines, was like a
weathered image which some worshipper had  gilded in an attempt to disguise  its
age. This bitter line  for poverty endured, that,  for the death of  a child ...
Could all the sorrows of a world have marked a goddess more?

He laid  his hand  on her  arm, seeing  the size  of her  body, but  feeling the
strength in it, and the flow of energy between them which had bound him to  her,
even more  than her  beauty, so  many years  ago. She  sat still,  accepting his
touch, although he thought she would have been well-justified in turning away.

Do I know you?

Gilla's eyes were  closed, her head  tipped back to  rest against the  wall in a
rare moment of peace. The deepening light upon her face seemed now to come  from
within. Lalo's eyes blurred. / have been blind, he thought, blind, and a fool...

'Yes ...' he fought to steady his  voice, knowing how he would paint her,  where
he would look for others to be his models now. His breath caught, and he reached
out to her. She looked at him then, smiling questioningly, and received him into
her embrace.

A hundred candles blazed in  Molin Torchholder's Hall, set in  silver candelabra
wrought in the shape of torches  upraised in clenched fists. Light shimmered  in
the gauzy silks of  the ladies of Sanctuary,  gleamed  from the  heavy  brocades
worn by  their lords, flashed from each golden  link of  chain or  faceted jewel
as they  moved across  the floor, nearly eclipsing the splendour of the room.

Lalo observed the scene from a vantage point of relative quiet beside a  pillar,
tolerated for his  role in creating  the murals whose  completion the party  was
intended to celebrate. Everyone of wealth or status who craved the favour of the
Empire  was there,  which these  days amounted  to most  of the  upper crust  of
Sanctuary, everyone wearing the same  mask of complacent gaiety. But  Lalo could
not help wondering  how, if he  had painted this  scene, those faces  would have
appeared..

Several merchants for whom Lalo had worked in the past had wangled  invitations,
although most  of his  former clients  would have  felt as  out of place in this
gathering as he did. He recognized  a few friends, among them Cappen  Varra, who
having just finished a  song, was now warily  watching Lady Danlis, who  was far
too busy being charming to a banker from Ranke to notice him.

Several other acquaintances from the  Vulgar Unicorn had somehow managed  to get
hired as extra waiters  and footmen. Lalo suspected  that not all of  the jewels
that winked so brightly .tonight would leave the house in the hands of those who
had brought them, but he did not feel compelled to point this out to anyone.  He
braced  himself  as he  recognized  Jordis the  stonemason  shouldering his  way
towards him through the glittering crowd.

'Well, Master Limner, now that you've  finished serving the gods, you'll have  a
bit more time for men, eh?' Jordis smiled broadly. 'The space on my wall  that's
waiting for my picture is still bare...'

Lalo coughed  deprecatingly. 'I'm  afraid that  in my  concentration on heavenly
things  I've  lost  my  touch  for  earthly  excellence  ...'  The  stonemason's
expression told him  how pompous that  sounded, but it  would be far  better for
everyone to think his head had been  turned by his new prosperity than for  them
to guess the truth. The solution to his dilemma that had enabled him to complete
the  job for Lord Molin had forever barred him from Society portraiture.

'Heavenly things ... ah,  yes...' Jordis's eyes had  moved to one of  the nymphs
painted on the wall, whose limbs were supple and rounded, whose eyes shone  with
youth  and merriment.  'If I  could make  a living  gazing at  such lovelies,  I
suppose I'd refuse to paint old men too!' He laughed suggestively. 'Where do you
find them in this town, eh?'

Selling their bodies on the docks ...or their souls in the Bazaar ... slaving in
your kitchen or scrubbing your floors... thought Lalo bitterly. This was not the
first time this evening that he had been asked who his models were. The nymph at
whom Jordis was now  leering so eagerly was  a crippled beggar girl  whom he had
probably passed in the  street a dozen times.  On another wall the  whore Valira
proudly presented a sheaf of grain to the Goddess, while her child tumbled  like
a cherub about her feet. And  the Goddess they worshipped, who dominated  all of
the facile splendour in  this room, was his  Gilla, the rhinoceros who  had been
revealed as something greater than any unicorn.

You have  hearts but  you do  not feel...  Lalo's eyes  moved over the dazzle of
apparel and ornament in which Lord Molin's guests had disguised themselves.  You
have  eyes,  but  you  do  not see.  He  murmured  something  about  an artist's
perspective.

'If you want a room  decorated, I'll be happy to  serve you, but I do  not think
that I  will be  doing portraits  any more.'  Ever since  he had  learned to see
Gilla, his  sight had  been changing.  Now, when  he was  not painting, he could
often see the truth behind the faces men showed the world. He added politely, 'I
trust that your work is going well?'

'Eh? My work  - oh yes,  but there's not  much left for  a stonemason now!  What
remains will require a  different sort of craft...'  His chuckle held a  hint of
complicity.

Lalo felt himself  flushing, realizing that  Jordis assumed he  had been fishing
for  information  about  the  new temple  -  the  greatest  decoration job  that
Sanctuary had  ever known.  Wasn't I?  he wondered.  Is it  unworthy to  want my
goddess to adorn something  more worthy  than this  jumped-up engineer's/easting
hall?

His mouth  dried as  he saw  Molin Torchholder  himself approaching  him. Jordis
bowed, smirked, and melted back into the crowd. Lalo forced himself to stand  up
and meet  his patron's  eye. for  Lord Molin's  excess flesh  covered a powerful
frame, and there was something uncomfortably piercing about his gaze.

'I have to thank you,' said Lord Molin. 'Your work appears to be a success.' His
eyes roved ceaselessly from  the crowd to Lalo's  face and back again.  'Perhaps
too successful!' he went on. 'Next to  your goddess, my guests appear to be  the
decorations here!'

Lalo found himself trying to apologize and froze, terrified that he would  blurt
out the truth.

Molin Torchholder laughed. 'I am trying to compliment you, my good man -1  would
like to commission you to do the paintings on my new temple's walls...'

'Master Limner, you appear to be in good spirits today!'

Lalo, who had just turned from the Path of Money into the Avenue of Temples,  on
his way to make an  initial survey of the spaces  he was to decorate in  the new
temple to the Rankan gods, missed a step as the soft voice spoke in his ear.  He
heard a  dry chuckle,  felt the  hairs rise  on his  neck and  bent to peer more
closely at the other man. All he could see beneath the hooded caravaneer's cloak
was the gleam of crimson eyes.

'Enas Yorl!'

'More or less...'  his companion agreed.  'And you? Are  you the same?  You have
been in my thoughts a great deal. Would you like me to change the gift I gave to
you?'

Lalo shivered, remembering those  moments when he would  have given his soul  to
lose the power  the sorcerer had  bestowed upon him.  But instead, his  soul had
been given back to him.

'No. I don't think so,' he answered quietly, and sensed the sorcerer's surprise.
'The debt is  mine. Shall I  paint you another  picture to repay  it?' He added,
'Shall I paint a portrait of you, Enas Yorl?'

The sorcerer halted then, and for a moment the painter met fully the red gaze of
those unearthly eyes, and he trembled at the immortal weariness he saw there.

Yet it was not Lalo, but Enas Yorl, who was the first to close his eyes and look
away.



THEN AZYUNA DANCED

by Lynn Abbey

1

He was  a handsome  man, somewhat  less than  middle-aged, with  a physique that
bespoke  a  soldier,  not  a  pnest. He  entered  the  bazaar-stall  of  Kul the
Silkseller with an  authority that sent  the other patrons  back into the  dusty
afternoon and brought bright-eyed Kul out from behind his bolts of cloth.

'Your grace?' he fawned.

'I  shall  require a  double  length of  your  finest silk.  The  colour is  not
important - the texture is. The silk must flow like water and a candleflame must
be bright through four thicknesses.'

Kul thought for a moment, then rummaged up an armload of samples. He would  have
displayed each, slowly, in its turn, but his customer's eyes fell on a sea-green
bolt and Kul realized it would be folly to test the priest's patience.

'Your  grace has  a fine  eye,' he  said instead,  unrolling a  half-length  and
letting the priest examine the hand and transparency of the cloth.

'How much?'

'Two gold coronations for both lengths.'

'One.'

'But, your grace has only recently  arrived from the capital. Surely you  recall
the fetching-price of such workmanship. See here, the right border is shot  with
silver threads. It's certainly worth one-and-seven.'

'And  this  is certainly  not  the capital.  Nine  Rankan soldats,'  the  priest
growled, reducing his offer further.

Kul whisked the cloth out of the priest's hand, spinning it expertly around  the
bolt. 'Nine soldats ...  the silver in the  cloth is worth more  than that! Very
well. I've  no choice,  really. How  is a  bazaar-merchant to  argue with  Molin
Torchholder, High Priest  of Vashanka? Very  well, very well  - nine soldats  it
is.'

The priest snapped  his fingers and  an adolescent temple-mute  scurried forward
with the  priest's purse.  The youth  selected nine  coins, showed  them to  his
master,  then handed  them to  Kul who  checked both  sides to  be certain  they
weren't shaved -  as so much  of Sanctuary's currency  was. (It was  not fitting
that a priest handle his own money.) When Kul slipped the small handful of coins
into  his waist-pouch,  Torchholder snapped  his fingers  a second  time and   a
massively built plainsman  ducked under  the stall's  lintel, holding  the  door
cloth until the priest departed, then taking the bolt from the silent youth.

Molin Torchholder strode purposefully through the crowded Bazaar, confident  the
slaves would  keep pace  with him  somehow. The  silk was  almost as good as the
merchant claimed,  and in  the capital,  where better  money flowed more freely,
would have brought twice what the  merchant had asked. The priest had  not risen
so high  in the  Rankan bureaucracy  that he  failed to  savour a  well-finessed
haggling.

His sedan-chair awaited him at the bazaar-gate. A second plainsman was there  to
hold his heavy robes while he stepped over the carved-wood sides. The first  had
already placed the  silk on the  seat and stood  beside the rearmost  poles. The
mute  pulled a  leather-wrapped forked  stick from  his belt,  slapped it   once
against his thigh and the entourage headed back to the palace.

The plainsmen went to  wherever it was that  they abided when Molin  didn't need
their services; the youth  carried the cloth to  the family's quarters with  the
strictest instructions that the esteemable  Lady Rosanda, Molin's wife, was  not
to see  it. Molin  himself wandered  through the  palace until  he came to those
rooms now allotted to Vashanka's servants and slaves.

It was the latter who interested him, specifically the lithe Northern slave they
called Seylalha who practised the arduous Dance of the Consort at this time each
day. The dance was a mortal recreation of the divine dance Azyuna had  performed
before her brother, Vashanka,  persuading him to make her his concubine   rather
than relegate her to the  traitorous ranks of their ten brothers. Seylalha would
perform that dance in less than a  week  at the annual commemoration of the  Ten
-Slaying.

She had reached the climax of  the music when he arrived, beginning  the dervish
swirls that  brought her  calf-length honey-coloured  hair out  into a complete,
dazzling circle. The tattered practice  rags had long-since been discarded,  but
she  was not  yet twirling  so fast  that the  priest could  not appreciate  the
firmness other  thighs, the  small, upturned  breasts. (Azyuna's  dance must  be
danced by a Northern slave or the movements became grotesque.) The slave's face,
Molin  knew, was  as beautiful  as her  body though  it was  now hidden  by  the
swinging hair.

He watched until the music exploded in a final crescendo, then slid the spy-hole
shut with an audible  click. Seylalha would  see no virile  man until the  feast
night when she danced for the god himself.


2

The slave had  been escorted to  her quarters -  more properly: returned  to her
cell. The beefy  eunuch turned the  key that slid  a heavy bolt into  place;  he
needn't  have  bothered.   After  ten  years   of  captivity and  especially now
that  she  was  in Sanctuary,  Seylalha  was  not likely  to  risk  her life  in
escape-attempts.

He had been there watching again; she knew that and more. They thought her  mind
was as blank as the surface of a  pond on a windless day - but they  were wrong.
They thought she could remember nothing of her life before they had found her in
a squalid slave-pen; she'd merely been too smart to reveal her memories. Neither
had she  ever revealed  that she  could understand  their Rankan  language - had
always understood it. True,  the women who taught  her the dance were  all mutes
and could reveal nothing,  but there were others  who had tongues. That  was how
she came  to learn of Sanctuary, of Azyuna and the Feast of the Ten-Slaying.

Here in Sanctuary she was the only one who knew the whole dance but had not  yet
performed it for the  god. Seylalha guessed  that this year  would be her   year
the one fateful night in her constricted life. They thought she didn't know what
the dance was. They  thought she performed it  out of fear for  the bitter-faced
women with their leather-bound  clatter-sticks. But in her  tribe nine-year-olds
were considered of marriageable age, and a seduction was a seduction  regardless
of the language.

Seylalha had reasoned, as well, that if she did not want to become one of  those
mutilated women who had trained and taught  her she'd best get a child from  her
bedding with the god.  Legend said Vashanka's unfulfilled  desire was to have  a
child by his sister; Seylalha would oblige the god in exchange for her  freedom.
The Ten-Slaying was a new-moon feast; she bled at the full-moon. If the god were
man-like after the fashion of her clan-brothers, she would conceive.

She knelt on  the soft bed-cushions  they provided her,  rocking back and  forth
until tears flowed down her face; silent tears lest her guardians hear and force
a drugged potion down  her throat. Calling on  the sungod, the moongod,  the god
who  tended the  herds in  the night  and every  other shadowy  demon she  could
remember from  the days  before the  slave-pens, Seylalha  repeated her prayers:
'Let me  conceive. Let  me bear  the god's  child. Let  me live!  K-eep me  from
becoming one of themF

In the distance, beyond walls and locked door, she could hear her less fortunate
sisters speaking  to each  other on  their tambours,  lyres, pipes  and  clatter
sticks.  They'd danced  their dance  and lost  their tongues;  their wombs  were
filled with bile. Their music was a mournful, bitter dirge - it told her fate if
she did not bear a child.

As the tears  dried she arched  her back until  her forehead rested  on the soft
mass of her hair beneath her.  Then, in rhythm to the distant  conversation, she
began her dance again.


3

Molin paced  around the  marble-topped table  he had  brought with  him from the
capital. The mute who  always attended him hid  in the far corners  of the room.
Molin's wrath had touched him three times and it was not yet high-noon.

The injustice, the indignity of being the  supreme priest of Vashanka in a  sink
hole like Sanctuary. Construction lagged on the temple: inept crews,  unforeseen
accidents, horrendous omens. The old  Ilsig hierarchy gloated and collected  the
citizenry's irregular tithes. The Imperial entourage was cramped into inadequate
quarters that shoved his household together. He was actually sharing rooms  with
his wife  - a  situation neither  of them  had ever  desired and could no longer
tolerate. The Prince was an idealist, an unmarried idealist, whose belief in the
bliss of that inconvenient state was  exceeded only by his nai'vety with  regard
to statecraft.  It was  difficult not  to enjoy  the Prince's  company, however,
despite his  manifold shortcomings.  He had  the proper  breeding for  a useless
younger son, and only the worst of fates had brought him so perilously close  to
the throne that he must be sent so depressingly far from it.

In Ranke, Molin  had a fine  house - as  well as rooms  within the temple.  Rare
flowers bloomed  in his  heated gardens;  a waterfall  coursed down one interior
wall of the  temple drowning out  the street-noises and  casting rainbows across
this very table when it had resided in his audience chambers. Where had he  gone
wrong? Now he had a tiny room with  one window looking out to an air shaft  that
must have sunk in  the cesspools of hell  itself and another one,  the larger of
the  two, overlooking  the gallows.  Moreover, the  Hounds were  elsewhere  this
morning and yesterday's corpses still creaked in the breeze.

Injustice! Indignity! And so, of course,  he must clothe himself in the  majesty
of his position as Vashanka's  loyal and duly initiated priest.  Kadakithis must
find his way to  these forsaken quarters and  endure them as the  priests did if
Molin was to acquire  better lodgings. The Prince  was late - no  doubt he'd got
lost.

'My Lord Molin?' a cheerful voice  called from the antechamber. 'My Lord  Molin?
Are you here?'

'I am, my Prince.'

Molin gestured to  the mute who  poured two goblets  of fruit tea  as the Prince
entered the room.

'My Lord Molin,  your messenger said  you wished to  see me urgently  on matters
concerning Vashanka? This must be true, isn't it, or you wouldn't have called me
all the  way out  here. Where  are we?  No matter.  Are there  problems with the
temple again? I've told  Zaibar to see to  it that the conscripts  perform their
duties...'

'No, my Prince, there are no new problems with the temple, and I have turned all
those matters over to the Hounds, as  you suggested. We are, by the way,  in the
outer wall of your palace -just upwind of the gallows. You can see them  through
the window - if you'd like.'

The Prince preferred to sip his tea.

'My  purpose  in  summoning  you,  my  Prince,  has  to  do  with  the  upcoming
commemoration of the Ten-Slaying to take place at the new-moon. I wished certain
privacy and discretion which, frankly, is not available in your own quarters.'

If the Prince was offended by Molin's  insinuations he did not reveal it. 'Do  I
have special duties then?' he asked eagerly.

Molin, sensing the lad's excitement, pressed his case all the harder. 'Extremely
special  ones, my  Prince; ones  not even  your distinguished  late Father,  the
Emperor, was  honoured  to  perform.   As  you are  no  doubt   aware,  Vashanka
mayHisnamebe-praised - has concerned Himself rather personally in the affairs of
this city  of late.  My augurists  report that  on no  less than  three separate
occasions  since  your  arrival  in  this  accursed  place  His  power  has been
successfully invoked by one not of the temple hierarchy.'

The Prince set down his goblet. 'You  know of these things?' he asked with  open
-faced incredulity. 'You can tell when the god's used His power?'

'Yes, my Prince,'  Molin answered calmly.  'That is the  general purpose of  our
hierarchy. Working through the mandated rituals and in partnership with our  God
we  incline  Vashanka's  blessings towards  the  loyal,  righteous upholders  of
tradition,  and  direct His  wrath  towards those  who  would deny  or  harm the
Empire.'

'I know of no traitors ...'

'... And neither  do I, my  Prince,' Molin said,  though he had  his suspicions,
'but I do know  that our God, Vashanka  - may-Hisnamebepraised - is  showing His
face with increasing fre-• quency and devastating effect in this town.'

'Isn't that what he's supposed to do?'

It was difficult to believe that the vigorous Imperial household had produced so
dense an  heir; at  such times  as this  Molin almost  believed the rumours that
circulated around  the Prince.  Some said  that he  was at  least as  clever and
ambitious as his brother's advisers feared; Kadakithis was deliberately botching
this gubernatorial appointment so  he would have to  be returned to the  capital
before the Empire faced rebellion. Unfortunately, Sanctuary was more than  equal
to the most artfully contrived incompetence.

'My Prince,' Molin began again, snapping his fingers to the mute who immediately
pushed a great-chair forward  for the Prince to  sit in. This was  going to take
longer than  anticipated. 'My  Prince -  a god,  shall we  say any  god but most
especially our own god Vashanka - mayHisnamebepraised - is an awesomely powerful
being who,  even though  He may  beget mortal  children on  willing or unwilling
women, is quite unlike a mortal man.

'A mere man who  runs rampant in the  streets with his sword  drawn and shouting
sedition  would be  an easy  matter for  the Hounds  to control  - assuming,  of
course, they even noticed him in this town ...'

'Are you  saying, my  Lord Molin,  that such  a vagrant  is ploughing through my
city?  Is that  why you've  called me  here, really?  Does my  suite harbour   a
viperous traitor?'

It must be  an act, Molin  decided. No one  could attain physical  maturity with
only Kadakithis's apparent intelligence to guide him. He had attained  maturity,
hadn't he?  Molin's plans  demanded it.  He was  known to  have concubines,  but
perhaps he merely talked them to sleep? It was time for a change of tactics.

'My Dear Prince, as hierarchical superior  here in Sanctuary I can flatly  state
that the repeated incidents of divine intervention, unguided as they are by  the
rituals performed according to tradition by myself and my acolytes, constitute a
severe threat to the  well-being of your people  and your mission to  Sanctuary.
They must be stopped by whatever means are necessary!'

'Oh... oh!' the  Prince's face brightened.  'I believe I  understand. I'm to  do
something at next week's festival that will help you get control again. Do I get
to bed Azyuna?'

The light in the young man's eyes reassured Molin that the Prince did understand
the purpose of a concubine. 'Indeed, my Prince! But that is only a small part of
what we shall  do next week.  The Dance of  Azyuna and the  Divine Seduction are
performed at the festival each year. Many children are born of such unions, many
serve their ersatz-father with great dignity - I myself am a son of the Consort.
But, under extreme  circumstances the Dance  of Azyuna will  be preceded by  the
most sacred recreation of the Ten-Slaying itself. Vashanka - mayHisnamebepraised
- rediscovers His traitorous brothers plotting to overthrow the divine authority
of Savankala, their father. He slays them  on the spot and takes Azyuna, at  her
insistence, to bed at once as his consort. The child of such a union - if  there
were any - would be well-omened indeed.

'My  Prince, the  auguries indicate  that such  a child  will be  born here   in
Sanctuary - of  all places -  and our God's  activity here would  lend belief to
this. It is imperative  that such a child  be born within the  strictures of the
temple; it would be fitting if the child's natural father were you ...'

The Prince turned  the colour of  the fruit tea,  though his complexion  quickly
levelled off at  a unique  shade of  green. 'But  Molin, that's  general's  work
killing surrendered officers of the enemy. Molin, you  don't expect me  to  kill
ten  men, do you?  Why, there  aren't more than ten  Vashankan priests  in  this
whole city.'  I'd have to  kill you. I couldn't do it, Molin - you mean too much
to me.'

'My Dear Prince,'  Molin poured another  goblet of fruit  tea and signalled  the
mute  to bring  a  stronger  libation  for  the next  round.  'My  Dear  Prince,
while I would never hesitate to  lay down my life for you or  the Empire should,
gods forfend, the need ever arise -none  the less, I assure you, I am  not about
to make  the supreme  sacrifice at   this time.  There is  nothing in  the  most
sacred tomes of ritual dictating the nature or rank of the ten who must be slain
-save that they must be undeformed and alive at the start.'

At that moment there were shouts outside  Molin's larger window and the  all-too
familiar sound of the gallow's rope snapping another neck.

'Very simply, my  Prince, cancel these  daily executions and  by the Ten-Slaying
I'm sure we'll have our quota.'

The Prince  blanched at  the thought  of Sanctuary  denizens whose activities so
exceeded  the  norms of  this  none-too-civilized place  that  his judges  would
condemn them to death.

'They would be bound and drugged, of course,' Molin consoled his Prince, 'as  is
part of custom, if not tradition.  Our hierarchy has suffered the discomfort  of
having the wrong man survive,' Molin added quickly, without mentioning that they
had also suffered the inconvenience of losing all eleven to their wounds  before
the  ritual  could  be  completed.   The  hierarchy  had  acquired  an   immense
practicality over the generations when its own interests were concerned.

Kadakithis stared blankly into  the corners of the  room; he had stared  briefly
out the window but the busy gallows had not brought the peace of mind he sought.
Molin entertained hopes  of getting new  quarters in the  near future. The  mute
offered them a fresh goblet of the local wine - a surprisingly potable beverage,
given its origins. But  then the priorities of  the populace were such  that the
wine should be far better than their cheese or bread. Molin himself offered  the
strong drink to the Prince.

'Molin -I cannot.  If it were  just the Dance...  well, no, not  even then.' The
Prince squared his shoulders and simulated a stance of firm resolve. 'Molin, you
are wrong - it would not be fitting for a Prince of the blood. I mean no  slurs,
but I cannot be seen consorting with a temple slave at a public festival.'

Molin considered the  refusal; considered taking  Vashanka's role himself-  he'd
seen the temple slave  in question. But he  had been honest with  the Prince; it
was of the utmost importance that the child be properly conceived.

'My Prince,  I do  not ask  this lightly,  any more  lightly than  I informed my
brethren in  Ranke of  my decision  in this  matter. The  slave is  of the  best
Northern stock; the rite is held in strictest mystery.

'The Hand of Vashanka  rests heavily on your  prefecture, my Prince. You  cannot
have failed to notice His presence. The daily auguries show it plainly. Your own
Hell Hounds, the very guardians of Imperial Order, are not immune to the dangers
of Vashanka's unbridled presence!'

The High Priest paused, staring  hard into Kadakithis's eyes, forcing  the young
governor to acknowledge  the rumours that  flew freely and  were never disputed.
Molin could trace  his ancestry to  the god in  the time-honoured way,  but what
about Tempus?  The Hell  Hound bore  Vashanka's mark,  but had  been whelped far
beyond the ken of the priesthood.

'Who are we to channel the powers  of the gods?' the Prince responded, his  gaze
unfocused, his manner uncomfortably evasive.

Molin drew himself  up to his  full height, some  finger-widths taller than  the
Prince. His  back straightened  as if  the beaten  gold headdress  of his office
balanced on his brow. 'My Prince,  we are the channels, the only  true channels.
Without the  mediation of  a duly  consecrated hierarchy  the bonds of tradition
which make Vashanka - mayHisnamebepraised - our God and us His worshippers would
be irreparably sundered. The rituals of  the temple, whose origins are one  with
the  God  Himself, are  the  balance between  mortal  and immortal.  Anyone  who
circumvents the rituals, for any reason however well-intentioned ... anyone  who
does not hearken to the call of  the hierarchy in its  needs subverts the proper
relationship of god and worshipper to the damning harm of both!'

Again the  experienced Imperial  Hierarch stared  down on  the young,  awestruck
Prince. Molin  was only  half-conscious of  overstating the  case for  stringent
observation of  the rituals.  Vashanka's displeasure  when He  was not  properly
appeased was  extensively documented.  The rituals  were all  intended to bind a
capricious and hungry deity.

The  crowd  outside  Molin's  window  raised  its  voice  and  shut  down  their
conversation; the day's verdicts were being proclaimed. There would be two  more
hangings on the morrow. Kadakithis started when his name was used to justify the
awful punishments the Empire meted out to its criminals. He shrank back from the
window  as a  huge black  crow landed  on the  sill, swivelling  its head  in  a
lopsided start of dark-curiosity. The Prince shooed it back to the gallows.

'I will do what I can, Molin.  I will speak with my advisers.'

'My  Dear  Prince, in   matters  regarding  the  spiritual   well-being of   the
Imperial Presence  in Sanctuary, I am your only trusted adviser.'

Molin regretted his burst of temper  at once; though the Prince gave  him smooth
verbal assurances, the  Vashankan priest was  now certain that  the Hound Tempus
would know by sundown.

Tempus: a plague, a thorn, a malignancy to the proper order of things. A son  of
Vashanka, a  true-son no  doubt, and  utterly unfettered  by the  constraints of
ritual and hierarchy.  If even a  fraction of the  rumours about him  were to be
believed; if he  had survived dissection  on Kurd's tables  ... It could  not be
believed. Tempus could not be so far beyond the hierarchy's reach.

Well, Molin thought after  a moment, I'm a  true-son too. Let the  Prince run to
him in sweating anxiety. Let him consult with Tempus; let them conspire  against
me - I'll still succeed.

Generations of priests  had bred generations  of true-sons to  Vashanka. The god
was not quite the blood-drinker he once was.

Vashanka could be constrained and, after all, Molin's side of the family was far
bigger than Tempus's.

He watched  the Prince  leave without  feeling panic.  The crow  returned to the
window-ledge as was its daily custom. The bird cawed impatiently while Molin and
the mute prepared its feast: live mouse dipped  in wine. The  priest watched the
bird disappear back  to the Maze rooftops, staring after its flight  long  after
his wife had begun  to shout his name.


4

Seylalha stood perfectly  still while the  dourfaced women draped  the sea-green
froth around her. The women would  not hesitate to prick her sharply  with their
bodkins and needles, though they took  the greatest of care with the  silk. They
stepped back and signalled that she should spin on her toes for them.

Deep  folds of  material billowed  out into  delicate clouds  at her   slightest
movement. The  texture of  the cloth  against her  skin was  so unlike the heavy
tatters of  her usual  attire that  for once  she forgot  to watch the intricate
dance-language other instructors a; they discussed their creation.

The time must be drawing near; they would not dress her like this unless it  was
almost time for  her marriage to  the god. The  moon above her  cell was a  thin
crescent fading to blackness.

They got  their instruments  and began  to play.  Without waiting  for the sharp
report of the clatter-sticks, Seylalha began to dance, letting the unhemmed ends
of the  silk swirl  out to  accompany her  as she  moved through the hundreds of
poses - each painfully inured in her muscles. She flowed with the atonal  music,
throwing her soul into  each leap and turn,  keenly aware that this  meaningless
collection of movements would become her only, exquisite plea for freedom.

When she settled into the final frantic moments of the dance the sea-green  silk
was  caught in  her flying  hair and  lifted away  from her  body until  it  was
restrained only by the brooches at her  neck and  waist. As  she fell  into  the
prostrate bow,   the silk   floated down,  hiding the   rhythmic heaving  of her
exhausted lungs.  The clatter-sticks  were silent, without nagging corrections.

Seylalha separated her hair and stood up in one graceful movement. Her  teachers
were motionless  as well  as speechless.  Never again  would she  be the bullied
student. Clapping her own  hands at the quiet  women, Seylalha waited until  the
nearest one crept  forward to unpin  the twisted silk  and accompany her  to her
bath.


5

It was inky night  and even the light  of two dozen torches  was insufficient to
guide  the procession  along the  treacherous, rutted  streets of  Sanctuary  in
safety. Molin Torchholder  and five other  ranking members of  the hierarchy had
excused themselves from the procession and waited in the relative comfort of the
stone-porch of  the still  incomplete Temple  of Vashanka.  Behind the priests a
great circular tent had been erected.  The mute women could be heard  tuning and
conversing with their instruments. As the bobbing torches rounded into the plaza
the women were  silenced and Molin,  ever-careful with his  elaborate headdress,
mounted a small dais on the porch.

The girl, Seylalha, shrouded in a cloak of feathers and spun gold, clutched  the
side-rail  of the  open platform  as six  bearers recruited  from the   garrison
struggled with the rough-hewn steps. She lurched violently to one side, spilling
the luxuriant cloth almost  to the ground, but  her dancer's reflexes saved  her
from an ill-omened  tumble. Ten felons  from the city  dungeons, drugged into  a
stupor,  clambered past  - oblivious  to the  past and  present as  well as  the
limited future. Their white robes were  already soiled by numerous falls in  the
muddy streets but none had seriously injured himself.

At  the  rear of  the  procession, wearing  another  mask of  hammered  gold and
obsidian, Prince KLadakithis groped his way to the  tent. He  glanced at   Molin
as  he passed  though their  masks made  subtle communication impossible. It was
enough,  for Molin's purposes, that the  Prince himself was entering  the  tent.
He  tied the  cloth-door  of the  tent  closed and  braced three crossed  spears
against the lintel.

The Hell Hounds formed an outer perimeter - the Hell Hounds save for Tempus whom
Molin,  with  self-congratulations, had  had  assigned to  other  duties in  the
palace; the  man might  not do  as he  was told,  but he  wouldn't be  near this
ritual. The Hounds  held their drawn  swords before them;  they would administer
the coup de grace  should anyone leave or  enter the tent before  sunrise. Molin
reminded them  of their  obligations in  a voice  that carried  well beyond  the
unfinished walls.

'Those Ten whom Vashanka destroyed  have been disgraced and remain  unworshipped
to this day; their very  names have been unlearned. But  the wraith of a god  is
far stronger than the spirit of a mortal man. They will feel their deaths  again
and converge upon this site seeking an unwitting or feeble mortal whom they  can
usurp and use against their brother. It  is your duty to see that this  does not
occur!'

Zaibar, captain of the Hell Hounds, bellowed his comprehension of Molin's order.


6

The women, and they were all dressed as women though Seylalha knew some of  them
were the eunuchs who  routinely guarded her, crept  forward to remove the  heavy
cloak from her shoulders. She shook the cramped silk and knotted her fingers  in
anticipation. A partition of fine netting separated the musicians from the other
participants in this drama, but  their sounds were familiar and  oddly soothing.
The carpet on which she had always danced lay slightly to one side of the centre
of the tent  and behind the  carpet was a  mound of pillows  to which the  burly
'women' directed her. The white-robed men  were invited to partake of a  banquet
laid out  on a  low table  and fell   over each  other rushing  to the sumptuous
food. The  masked figure  who stood  apart from  the rest  and seemed distinctly
uncomfortable under his splendid  robe was led to   a separate table where  only
stale bread  and water had been laid and an ugly, heavy short-sword awaited him.

So, that was the god, Seylalha thought, as the mask was lifted from his face. He
was weak-chinned - but  what civilized man did  not show the stains  of his rich
foods and soft bed? He was, at least, a whole man. The man-god would not look at
her, preferring to watch the darkest,  least penetrable  recesses of  the  tent.
Seylalha knew   fear for   his curiously   absent  passions.   Sliding  off  the
cushions  she  struck  the first position of her dance, expecting the  musicians
to lift their instruments.

But the musicians reached for  their clatter-sticks and the eunuchs  guided  her
rudely  back to   the cushions.  She  shook  their hands  away, aware that  they
dared not hurt her, but then her attention, and the attention of everyone in the
tent, was riveted to a newcomer,  a more appropriate man-god  who had  eased out
of the darkness and held an unsheathed dagger in his left hand.

He was tall, massive, etched with the harsh lines of a rough and feral man.  The
one whom  she had  mistaken for  the man-god  embraced the  newcomer with hearty
familiarity. 'I was afraid you wouldn't  show up, Tempus.'

'Both you  and  He  had my  word. Torchholder  is a  canny man;  he distrusts me
already -T could not  walk in  right  behind you,  my  Prince.'

'She  is  beautiful...' the  Prince   mused, glancing to Seylalha for  the first
time. 'You've reconsidered? It  would be for the  best if you did  ... even now.
Her beauty  means  nothing  to me.   None of  this  means anything to  me except
that it must be done and I must do it.'

'Yes, you're the one to do  it... though she is more tempting than I would  have
thought possible.'

The  chiefmost of  the gowned  eunuchs moved  to separate  the men,  giving  the
interloper a stiff punch on the shoulder. Seylalha, who could read the  language
of   movement, froze  in terror  as the   feral stranger  turned, hesitated  and
plunged the dagger deep  into the eunuch's chest  all within the space  of a few
heartbeats. The  other 'women'  who saw  little more  than a  blur of  movement,
wailed  and  groaned  in terror  as  the  dead eunuch  collapsed  to  the  rough
ground.   Even the   white-robed feasters   ceased their   eating and  became  a
frightened knot of sheep-like men.

'It will be as I warned you, my Prince - not merely the Ten but all the  others.
If you've no  taste for bloodshed  it would be  best if you  depart now. My  men
await you. I will do my father's work.'

'What of Zaibar? I knew nothing about that until Molin addressed them.'

'They did not see me; it is unlikely they will see you.'

The  one who  had been  called the  Prince slunk  into the  darkness. The  other
retrieved his dagger from the corpse.

'Our Imperial Prince is not one for rituals of bloodshed and violence,' he  said
to everyone in the tent. 'He has asked  me to take the role of my father  in his
stead. Would any here gainsay my right to act for Vashanka and my Prince?'

The question was purest rhetoric. The  bloody corpse was testimony to the  price
of gainsaying this intruder.  Seylalha wrenched a heavy  tassel from one of  the
pillows and shredded it  behind her. She clung  to the belief that  her life had
been an arrow directed to this night, her dance would be her salvation; but that
belief was shaken as the eunuchs who had ruled her for so many years cowered  in
fear and the feasting men made a doomed attempt to find hiding places.

With an  unpleasant smile  the man-god  strode to  the table  where he  ripped a
mouthful of bread from the loaf,  drained the beaker of salted water  and lifted
the crude sword. He shifted it once or twice in his hand, his fingers  adjusting
to  its awkward  balance. With  the same  smile still  on his  lips he  advanced
towards the terrified men in white.

Screaming, despite the drugs, they raced through the tent as he winnowed through
their numbers. The wisest, least  drugged, plunged through the netting  into the
company of musicians. The man-god stalked his ersatz-brethren as if the darkness
did not exist  and with  a  vicious determination  that  bespoke  his acceptance
of  the  role.  He shoved  the shrieking  women aside  with  his  free hand  and
delivered the final  strokes  with the  bloody sword. The  killing completed, he
set about gathering the heads of his  enemies and placing  them in a  gory  heap
on  the banquet  table  -a task  made no easier  to do or  watch by the edgeless
sword he wielded.

Still kneeling among  the pillows, Seylalha  drew the sheer  silk tightly around
herself,  twisting the loose  ends about  her  arms until she  had become  a sea
-green statue, for the  cloth did  nothing to conceal her  beauty and  little to
conceal her pale, quivering fear. When the blood-smeared stranger  who was  more
god than man  had placed the last  trophy  upon the table he vented  his  divine
violence on the woman-garbed  eunuchs. Seylalha pulled the pins  from her  hair;
the honey-brown  cascade covered  her eyes  and hid  her from  the sight  of the
guardians lying butchered on the ground.  She took fistfuls of hair and  pressed
them against her ears, but that was not enough to block the knowledge of how the
half-men had died. As she had done so many times as a child and as a woman,  she
began to rock back  and forth, keening softly  to gods whose names  she had long
since forgotten.

'It is time, Azyuna.'

His voice broke into her prayers. His  hand clamped over her wrist and drew  her
inexorably to her feet. Her legs  shook and she could not remain  upright except
through his hold  on her. When  he shook her  slightly she only  closed her eyes
tighter and swayed limply in his grasp.

'Open your eyes, girl. It is time!'

Obedient to the outside will Seylalha  opened her eyes and shook back  her hair.
The hand that gripped her was clean. The voice that commanded her had  something
of that forgotten wild land of her birth in it. His hair was the same colour  as
her own, but he was not a man come to claim his bride. She hung from his grip as
mute and fearful as the quiet women behind the torn netting.

'You are obviously the one to make Azyuna's pleas - however little you  resemble
her.  Do not  force me  to hurt  you more  than I  must already!'  he  whispered
urgently, leaning close to her ear, his  breath as warm and thick as blood.  'Or
have they not told you  the whole legend? I am  myself, I am Vashanka -  we both
grow impatient, girl. Dance because your life depends on it.'

He flicked her wrist  and sent her sprawling  to the blood-dampened carpet.  She
brushed her hair  away with a  forearm made red  from his grip.  The man-god had
shed the sombre clothing he had worn for the killing and stood near the  pillows
in a clean gold-worked tunic,  but the crude sword still  hung by his thigh -  a
rusty blush on the white tunic to mark where its cleaning had not been complete.
She read the tension in his legs, the minute extension of his left hand  towards
the sword-hilt, the slight lowering of one eyebrow and remembered that the dance
was her freedom.

Seylalha brought  one hand  through the  tangled mane  of her  hair, pointed two
fingers to her musicians. They struck a ragged, jarring chord to mark their  own
apprehensions but the tam-bourist found her throbbing drone and the dance began.

At first she felt the uneven ground beneath the rug and the damp spots upon  it,
just as she  saw those icy  eyes and the  outstretched fingers. Then  there were
only the years of practice. the  music and the desperation of the  dance itself.
Three times she felt herself collapse on a misplaced foot; three times the music
saved her and, writhing, twisting,  she caught herself with will-driven  muscles
that dared not feel their torture.

Her lungs were on  fire, her heartbeat louder  than the droning tambour  and she
danced. She heard only the pounding rhythms of the music and her heart; she  saw
Azyuna, dark and  voluptuous, as  she had  first performed  it before  her  long
toothed, bloodstained brother.

The  god Vashanka  smiled and  Seylalha, honey-hair  and sea-green  silk  twined
together, began the dervish finale of the dance. There was a salt-metal taste in
her mouth  when she  doubled into  a barely  controlled collapse  on the carpet,
limbs trembling and glimmering with sweat in the torchlight.

Darkness hovered at the  end of her thoughts,  the total darkness of  exhaustion
and death; a freedom she had not anticipated, but in the still-bright centre  of
her thoughts  she saw  first the  bloody god  then the white-and-honey stranger,
both smiling, both walking slowly towards her. The sword was gone.

Strong arms parted the hair from her shoulders, lifted her effortlessly from the
carpet and held  her close against  cool, dry skin.  A leaden arm  shook off its
tiredness and found  his shoulder to  rest on. Had  Azyuna loved her  brother so
deeply?

'Release her!  I'm the  proper sister  for your  lusts.' A  voice which  was not
Seylalha's filled the tent with images of fire and ice.

'Cime!' the white-and-honey man said while Seylalha slid helplessly back to  the
carpet.

'She is a slave, a temple's pawn - their tool to capture you and Vashanka both!'

'What brought you here?' the man's voice was filled with wonder as well as anger
and, perhaps, a trace of fear. 'You did not know ...'                      .

'The smells of sorcery, priests and the timely knowledge of intrigue. I owe  you
this much. They mean to bind the God.'

'They meant to  fill the lily-Prince  with Vashanka and  gain a Prince  if not a
child. Their plans are sufficiently thwarted.'

Seylalha twisted slowly,  raising an arm  slightly to see  past her hair  to the
tall, slender woman  with the steel-streaked  hair. Her breath  came easier now;
the dance had not killed her - only the god could give her freedom now.

'Mortal flesh is no bond - as you well know. Vashanka's children bear a  special
curse ...' the man-god said, taking a step towards the woman.

'Then we'll complete  their sorry ritual  and damn the  curse. They'll kill  the
slut when she bleeds again and for us - who knows? A god's freedom?'

The woman,  Cime, jerked  the knot  loose from  her vest,  revealing a body that
belied the steel in her hair. Seylalha felt the man step further away from  her.
Cime's words echoed mockingly in  her ears. She had envisioned  Vashanka falling
upon his dark sister, this man-god  would do no  less. And she,  Seylalha, would
lie  unbroken  until the  full moon.  While brother  and sister  advanced slowly
towards each other Seylalha's toes closed  over the hilt of the discarded  sword
and dragged  it  into  her reach.   With serpentine   swiftness and  silence she
shot between   the pair,  facing the  woman, breaking  the spell  that drew them
together.

'He is mine!' she screamed in a voice so seldom used that it might have belonged
to Azyuna  herself. 'He  is mine  to bring  my child,  my freedom!' She held the
sword to the other woman's breast.

The sister stepped back; anger, thwarted desire and more burned in her eyes, but
Seylalha saw the fear in her movements  and knew she had won. The man's  fingers
wove through her honey hair, closing on  the neck brooch that held the cloth  at
her shoulder, ripping it from the soft silk.

'She's right, Cime.  You can't lure  me with His  freedom; I've felt  it for too
long already. We'll play Torchholder's little  game to the end and let  the Face
of Chaos laugh at us. The girl's won  her child. so leave - or I'll let  her use
the tent-peg on you.'

Cime's face was fury unbounded, but Seylalha no longer cared. The sword  dropped
from her fingers as soon as his  arms lifted her a second time and  carried her,
without interruption, to  the pillows. She  grasped his tunic  and tore it  back
from  his  shoulders with  a  determination equal  to  his own.  The  mute women
gathered their instruments and found a compelling harmony with which to fill the
tent.

Seylalha lost herself with  him until there was  nothing beyond the pillows  and
the  memory of  the music.  The torches  were long  since exhausted  and in  the
darkness her  god-lover was  neither awesome  nor cruel.  He might have intended
rape and pain, but her passion for  a child and freedom consumed him and  he lay
asleep across her  breast. Her body  curved against his  and though she  had not
meant it to happen, she fell asleep as well.

He grunted  and jerked  upright, leaving  her puzzled  and cold  on the pillows.
Wariness tightened the muscles  of his leg. She  raised herself up on  one elbow
without learning the source of his sudden concern.

'Cover yourself,' he instructed, thrusting his torn tunic at her.

'Why?'

'There'll be a fire here,' he spoke as if repeating words that swam in his  head
already. 'By Wrigglies, Cime or what... we're betrayed.'

He gripped her  arm and hauled  her to her  feet as the  tent burst into  flames
around them. Clutching the tunic to her breast, Seylalha moulded herself against
him. He was motionless for less than a  second; the fire swept through the  roof
cloth and raced towards the carpet  and pillows where they stood. Sparks  jumped
towards her long hair; she screamed and flailed at the flames until he put  them
out with his hands and hoisted her rudely in his arms.

The firelight leeched all gentleness from his face, replacing it with pain and a
glint of vengeance. One of the beams that supported the tent cracked down before
them, sending  a blaze  of fire  up past  his knees.  He cursed names that meant
nothing to her as he walked through the inferno.

They broke through the ring  of flames into the  predawn moist-ness of the  port
city air. She coughed, realizing she  had scarcely breathed since he had  lifted
her. With the gasps of cool air she caught the bitter scents of singed hair  and
charred flesh.

'Your legs?' she whispered.

'They'll mend; they always do.'

'But you're hurt now,'  she. protested. 'I can  walk - there's no  need to carry
me.'

She twisted  to be  free of  him but  his grip  grew tighter and unfriendly. She
began to fear  him again as  if their moments  together in the  tent had been  a
dream. The pinching fingers  holding her arms and  thighs could never have  been
gentle.

'I have not hurt you,'  he snarled. 'Of more women  than I care to remember  you
alone had demands that would sate me. You've got your freedom and I've got  rest
in a woman's arms. When it is safe I'll put you down, but not before.'

He carried her past the scattered stones of the unfinished temple and out   into
the  open land  beyond the   limits ofRankan  Sanctuary towards the  houses left
to ruins since Ilsig abandoned the town. She shivered and shed quiet tears,  but
clung   tightly as  he  assaulted  the uneven,   overgrown fields  in  the  grey
predawn light. He stopped by a crumbling wall and set her down upon it.

'The Hounds patrol here  at dawn; they'll find  you and bring you  safely to the
Prince and Torchholder.'

She didn't ask to  go with him, holding  the request firmly within  herself. The
One for whom she had danced was gone, probably forever, and the one who remained
was not the sort a dancer slave would be wise to follow. And there was the child
to consider ... Still, she could not turn away from him as he glared at her. His
face softened slightly, as  if her lover might  live somewhere behind that  grim
visage.

'Tell me your name,' he demanded in a voice half-gentle, half-mocking.

'Seylalha.'

'A Northern name, isn't it? A pretty name to remember.'

And  he was  gone, striding  back across  the fallow  gardens to  the town.  She
wrapped the torn, scorched tunic around her bare shoulders and waited.


7

Molin Torchholder hurried down the  polished stone corridors of the  palace; his
new sandals slapped the soles of his feet and echoed in the empty hallways.  The
sound reminded him of his  slaves' leather-wrapped sticks and that  reminded him
of how few slaves were left in the temple since the mysterious fire had taken so
many lives the night of the Ten-Slaying two weeks before.

He had sent a messenger  to the capita] the next  day with a full report  of the
events as he  understood them. He'd  written and sealed  it himself. The  Prince
could not have sent word faster; no post could have returned in that time. There
was no reason to think that Kadakithis or the Emperor himself would be  thinking
about Vashanka  today. But  the Prince's  summons had  been preemptive. so Molin
hiked the long, empty corridors with a worried look on his face.

The Ten-Slaying had convinced  him to take his  Prince more seriously. When  the
charred  tatters  of  cloth  and  wood  had  cooled  enough  to  let  the Hounds
investigate the blaze, they  had found a heap  of blackened skulls in  one place
and the bodies of the ten  felons scattered throughout the burned wreckage.  For
one  who  had  expressed  a distaste  for  bloodshed,  Kadakithis  had recreated
Vashanka's  vengeance to  the final  letter of  the legends  - a  precision  not
required and which Molin could not even remember describing to the Prince.

Tempus stood beside the Prince's throne, back in town after another  unexplained
absence. The massive, cruel Hell Hound did not look happy - perhaps the  strains
of the Sacred  Brotherhood's loyalty were  beginning to show.  Molin wished, for
the last time. that he knew why he had been summoned, then nodded to the  herald
and heard himself announced.

*Ah, Molin, there you are. We'd been wondering what was keeping you,' the Prince
said with his usual charm.

'My new quarters, while much appreciated, seem to be several leagues from  here.
I'd never thought there could be so much corridor in a small palace.'

'The rooms are adequate? The Lady Rosanda ...'

'The  girl  who  danced  Azyuna's  Dance  -  what  has  become  of  her?' Tempus
interrupted and Molin turned his attention  at once from the Prince to  the Hell
Hound.

'A few burns,' he responded cautiously, seeing displeasure in Tempus's eyes. The
Hound had called this  interview; Molin no longer  doubted it. 'Minor ones,'  he
added. 'What  little discomfort  she may  have experienced  seems to have passed
completely.'

'You've freed her, haven't you, Molin?' the Prince chimed in nervously.

'As a matter of course, though it's too  soon to tell if she'll bear a child.  I
thought it best to take  her survival as a sign  of the god's favour  -   in the
absence  of any  other  information. You  haven't  remembered anything yourself,
my Prince?'  Molin faced  the Prince  but glanced at Tempus. There was something
in the Hound's face whenever  the Ten-Slaying was  discussed, but  Molin doubted
he'd ever get to the bottom of it. Kadakithis claimed the  god had so completely
possessed him that  he remembered nothing  from the moment  the tent was  sealed
until sunrise when he found himself in his own bed.

'If she is with child?' Tempus continued.

'Then she  will live  out her  days at  the temple  with the  full honours  of a
freedwoman and  the living  consort of  our god  - as  you know. Her power could
become considerable -  though only time  will tell. It  depends on her,  and the
child - if there is a child.'

'And if there is no child?'

Molin shrugged.  'In many  respects it  will be  no different.  It is not in the
temple's power  to remove  the honours  we have  bestowed. Vashanka  saw fit  to
remove  her from  the inferno.'  It was  easier to  imagine Vashanka  possessing
Tempus than the  Prince, but Molin  had not become  High Priest by  speaking his
mind. 'We acknowledge her as First Consort of Sanctuary. It would be best if she
had conceived.'

Tempus nodded and  looked away. It  was the signal  the Prince had  been waiting
for. He had been even more uncomfortable at this interview than Molin; Molin was
used to hiding secrets. The Prince left the chamber without ritual, leaving  the
High Priest and the Hell Hound together for a moment.

'I've  talked with  her often  these past  few days.  Remarkable, isn't  it,  to
discover that a slave has a mind?' Molin said aloud to himself but for  Tempus's
benefit. If the Hound had an  interest in Seylalha the Priesthood wished  to use
it. 'She is convinced she  . slept with the god  - in all other respects  she is
intelligent and not given to false beliefs, but her faith in her lover will  not
be shaken. She dances  for him still, in  silence. I've replaced the  silks, but
women and eunuchs must come from the capital and that will take time.

'I watch  her each  evening at  sunset; she  doesn't seem  to mind.  She is very
beautiful, but sad  and lonely  as well  - the  dance has  changed since the Ten
Slaying. You must come and watch for yourself sometime.'



A MAN AND HIS GOD

by Janet Morris

1

Solstice storms and  heat lightning beat  upon Sanctuary, washing  the dust from
the gutters and from the faces of the mercenaries drifting through town on their
way north  where (seers  proclaimed and  rumour corroborated)  the Rankan Empire
would soon be hiring multitudes, readying for war.

The  storms  doused  cookfires  west  of  town,  where  the  camp  followers and
artificers that Sanctuary's ramshackle facilities could not hold had overflowed.
There  squatted,  under  stinking ill-tanned  hide  pavilions,  custom weaponers
catering to  mercenaries whose  eyes were  keener than  the most  carefully  wax
forged iron  and whose  panoplies must  bespeak their  whereabouts in  battle to
their comrades; their deadly efficacy to strangers and combatants; the dear cost
of their hire  to prospective employers.  Fine corselets, cuirasses  ancient and
modern, custom's best axes  and swords, and helmetry  with crests dyed to  order
could be had in Sanctuary that summer; but the downwind breeze had never smelled
fouler than after wending through their press.

Here  and there  among the  steaming firepots  siegecrafters and  commanders  of
fortifications  drilled  their  engineers,  lest  from  idleness  picked  men be
suborned by rival leaders  seeking to upgrade their  corps. To keep order  here,
the Emperor's haifbrother Kadakithis had only a handful of Rankan Hell Hounds in
his personal guard, and a local garrison staffed by indigenous Ilsigs, conquered
but  not  assimilated.  The  Rankans  called  the  Ilsigs  'Wrigglies',  and the
Wrigglies called  the Rankans  naked barbarians  and their  women worse, and not
even the rain could cool the fires  of that age-old rivalry.

On  the  landspit north  of  the lighthouse,  rain  had stopped  work  on Prince
Kadakithis's new  palace. Only  a man  and horse,  both bronze,  both of  heroic
proportions, rode the beach. Doom  criers of Sanctuary, who once  had proclaimed
their  town 'just  left of  heaven', had  changed their  tune: they  had  dubbed
Sanctuary Death's Gate and the one man, called Tempus, Death Himself.

He was not. He was a mercenary,  envoy of a Rankan faction desirous of  making a
change in  emperors; he  was a  Hell Hound,  by Kadakithis's  good offices;  and
marshal of  palace security,  because the  prince, not  meant to  triumph in his
governorship  exile,  was  understaffed.  Of late  Tempus  had  become  a  royal
architect, for which he was as qualified as any man about, having fortified more
towns than K-adakithis had years. The prince had proposed the site; the  soldier
examined it and found  it good. Not satisfied,  he had made it  better, dredging
deep with oxen  along the shore  while his imported  fortifications crews raised
double  walls of  baked brick  filled with  rubble and  faced with  stone.  When
complete,  these  would  be   deeply  crenellated  for  archers,   studded  with
gatehouses, double-gated and sheer. Even incomplete, the walls which barred  the
folk from  spit and  lighthouse grinned  with a  death's-head smirk  towards the
town, enclosing granaries and stables and newly whiled barracks and a spring for
fresh water: if War came hither, Tempus proposed to make Him welcome for a  long
and arduous siege.

The fey, god's-breath weather might  have stopped work on the  construction, but
Tempus worked without respite,  always: it eased the  soul of the man  who could
not sleep and  who had turned  his back upon  his god. This  day, he awaited the
arrival of Kadakithis and that of his own anonymous Rankan contact, to introduce
emissary to possible figurehead, to put  the two together and see what  might be
seen.

When he had arranged the  meeting, he had yet walked  in the shelter of the  god
Vashanka's arm. Now, things had changed for him and he no longer cared to  serve
Vashanka, the Storm God,  who regulated kingship. If  he could, he was  going to
contrive to be relieved   of his various commissions  and of his honour  bond to
Kadakithis, freed  to go   among the   mercenaries to   whom his   soul belonged
(since he  had it  back) and  put together a cohort to  take north and lease  to
the highest bidder.  He wanted to wade  thigh-deep in gore and guts and see  if,
just by chance, he  might manage  to find  his way back through  the  shimmering
dimensional gate beyond which the  god  had long ago thrust him,  back  into the
world and  into the age to which  he was born.

Since he knew the chances of that were less than Kadakithis becoming Emperor  of
Upper and Lower Ranke,  and since the god's  gloss of rationality was  gone from
him,  leaving him  in the  embrace of  the curse,  yet lingering,  which he  had
originally become the  god's suppliant to  thwart, he would  settle for a  small
mercenary corps of his own choosing,  from which to begin building an  army that
would not be a puerile jest, as Kadakithis's forces were at present. For this he
had been contacted, to this  he had agreed. It remained  only to see to it  that
Kadakithis agreed.

The mercenary who was a Hell Hound  scolded the horse, who did not like  its new
weighted shoes or the  water surging around its  knees, white as its  stockings.
Like the horse,  Kadakithis was only  potential in quest  of actualization; like
the horse, Kadakithis feared the wrong  things, and placed his trust in  himself
only, an untenable arrogance in horse or  man, when the horse must go to  battle
and the man also. Tempus collected the horse up under him, shifting his  weight,
pulling the red-bronze beast's head in against its chest, until the  combination
of his guidance and the toe-weights on its hooves and the waves' kiss showed the
horse what he wanted. Tempus could feel  it in the stallion's gaits; he did  not
need to see the result: like a dancer, the sorrel lifted each leg high. Then  it
gave a quizzical snort as it sensed  the power to be gained from such  a stride:
school was in session.  Perhaps, despite the four  white socks, the horse  would
suit. He lifted  it with a  touch and a  squeeze of his  knees into a  canter no
faster than another  horse might walk.  'Good, good,' he  told it, and  from the
beach came the pat-pat of applause.

Clouds split;  sunrays danced  over the  wrack-strewn shore  and over the bronze
stallion and  its rider,  stripped down  to plated  loinguard, making  a rainbow
about them.  Tempus looked  up, landward,  to where  a lone  eunuch clapped pink
palms  together  from   one  of  Prince   Kadakithis's  chariots.  The   rainbow
disappeared,  the  clouds  suppressed the  sun,  and  in a  wrap  of  shadow the
enigmatic Hell Hound (whom the eunuch knew from his own experience to be capable
of  regenerating  a  severed  limb  and  thus  veritably  eternal;  and  who was
indubitably deadlier than all the mercenaries descended on Sanctuary like  flies
upon a day-old carcass)  trotted the horse up  the beach to where  the eunuch in
the chariot was waiting on solid ground.

'What  are you  doing here,  Sissy? Where  is your  lord, Kada-kithis?'   Tempus
stopped his horse well back from  the irascible pair of blacks in  their traces.
This eunuch was near their colour:  a Wriggly. Cut young and deftly,  his answer
came in  a sweet  alto: 'Lord   Marshal,  most   daunting  of   Hell  Hounds,  I
bring  you  His Majesty's apologies, and true word, if you will heed it.'

The  eunuch, no  more than  seventeen, gazed  at him  longingly. Kadakithis  had
accepted this fancy  toy from Jubal,  the slaver, despite  the slavemaster's own
brand on its high  rump, and the deeper  dangers implied by the  identity of its
fashioner. Tempus had marked  it, when first he  heard its lilting voice  in the
palace, for he had heard that voice before. Foolish, haughty, or merely  pressed
beyond a bedwarmer's ability to cope: no matter; this creature ofJubal's, he had
long wanted. Jubal and Tempus had  been making private war, the more  fierce for
being  undeclared,  since  Tempus  had first  come  to  Sanctuary  and seen  the
swaggering, masked killers  Jubal kept on  staff terrorizing whom  they chose on
the town's west side.  Tempus had made those  masked murderers his private  game
stock, the west end of Sanctuary his personal preserve, and the campaign was on.
Time and  again, he  had dispatched  them. But  tactics change,  and Jubal's had
become too treacherous  for Tempus to  endure, especially now  with the northern
insurrection half out of its egg of rumour. He said to the parted lips  awaiting
his permission to speak and to the deer-soft eyes doting on his every move  that
the eunuch might dismount the car,  prostrate itself before him, and from  there
deliver its message.

It  did all  of those,  quivering with  delight like  a dog  enraptured by   the
smallest attention, and said with its forehead to the sand: 'My lord, the Prince
bids me say  he  has been  detained by  Certain  Persons, and will  be late, but
means to attend you. If you were to  ask me why that was,  then I would  have no
choice but to  admit to you  that the three  most mighty magicians,  those whose
names  cannot  be  spoken, came  down  upon  the summer  palace  in   billows of
blackest smoke  and  foul  odours, and   that the  fountains  ran  red and   the
sculptures  wept and  cried, and  frogs jumped  upon my  lord in  his bath,  all
because the  Hazards  are afraid  that  you might  move  to free  the  slayer-of
sorcerers called Cime before she comes to trial. Although my master assured them
that you would not, that  you had said nothing to  him about this woman, when  I
left they still were  not satisfied, but were  shaking walls and raising  shades
and doing all manner ofwizardly things to demonstrate their concern.'

The eunuch fell quiet,  awaiting leave to rise.  For an instant there  was total
silence, then the sound of Tempus's  slithering dismount. Then he said: 'Let  us
see your brand, pretty one,' and with a wiggling of its upthrust rump the eunuch
hastened to obey,

It took  Tempus longer  than he  had estimated  to wrest  a confession  from the
Wriggly, from the Ilsig who was the last of his line and at the end of his line.
It did not make cries of pleasure or betrayal or agony, but accepted its destiny
as good Wrigglies always did, writhing soundlessly.           -       '

When he let it  go, though the blood  was running down its  legs and it saw  the
intestine like  wet parchment  caught in  his fingernails,  it wept with relief,
promising to  deliver his  exhortation posthaste  to Kadakithis.  It kissed  his
hand, pressing  his palm  against its  beardless cheek,  never realizing that it
was, itself, his message, or that it would be dead before the sun set.


2

Kneeling to wash his arm in the surf, he found himself singing a  best-forgotten
funerary dirge  in the  ancient argot  all mercenaries  leam. But  his voice was
gravelly  and his  memories were  treacherous thickets  full of  barbs, and   he
stopped as soon  as he realized  that he sang.  The eunuch would  die because he
remembered its voice from the workshop of despicable Kurd, the frail and  filthy
vivisectionist, while he had been an experimental animal therein. He  remembered
other things, too: he remembered the sear of the branding iron and the smell  of
flesh burning and the voices of two fellow guardsmen, the Hell Hounds Zaibar and
Razkuli, piercing the drug-mist through holes the pain poked in his stupor.  And
he recalled a protracted  and hurtful healing, shut  away from any who  might be
overawed to see a man regrow a limb. Mending, he had brooded, seeking certainty,
some redress fit to his grievance. But he had not been sure enough to act.  Now,
after  hearing the  eunuch's tale,  he was  certain. When  Tempus was   certain.
Destiny got out its ledger.

But what to write therein? His instinct  told him it was Black Jubal he  wanted,
not the two  Hell Hounds; that  Razkuli was a  nonentity and Zaibar,  like a raw
horse, was merely in need  of schooling. Those two had  single-handedly arranged
for Tempus's snuff  to be drugged,  for him to  be branded, his  tongue cut out,
then sold off to  wicked little Kurd, there  to languish interminably under  the
knife? He could not credit it. Yet the eunuch had said - and in such straits  no
one lies - that though Jubal had gone to Zaibar for help in dealing with Tempus,
the slave trader had known nothing of what fate the Hell Hounds had in mind  for
their colleague.  Never mind  it; Jubal's  crimes were  voluminous. Tempus would
take him for espionage - that  punishment could only be administered once.  Then
personal grudges must be put aside: it is unseemly to hold feuds with the dead.

But if not Jubal, then who had written Tempus's itinerary for Hell? It  sounded,
suspiciously, like the god's  work. Since he had  turned his back upon  the god,
things had gone from bad to worse.

And if  Vashanka had  not turned  His face  away from  Tempus even  while he lay
helpless, the god had not stirred to rescue him (though any limb lopped off  him
still grew back, any wound he took healed relatively quickly, as men judge  such
things). No, Vashanka, his tutelary, had  not hastened to aid him. The  speed of
Tempus's healing was  always in direct  proportion to the  pleasure the god  was
taking in His servant. Vashanka's terrible rebuke had made the man wax terrible,
also. Curses and unholy insults rang down  from the mind of the god and  up from
the mind of the  man who then had  no tongue left with  which to scream. It  had
taken  Hanse  the  thief,  young Shadowspawn,  chancemet  and  hardly  known, to
extricate him from interminable torture. Now he owed more debt than he liked  to
Shadowspawn, and Shadowspawn knew more about Tempus than even that  backstreeter
could want to know,  so that the thief's  eyes slid away, sick  and mistrustful,
when Tempus would chance upon him in the Maze.

But even  then, Tempus's  break with  divinity was  not complete.  Hopefully, he
stood as Vashanka in the recreation of the Ten-Slaying and Seduction of  Azyuna,
thinking to  propitiate the  god while  saving face  - to  no avail. Soon after,
hearing that his sister, Cime,  had been apprehended slaying sorcerers  wantonly
in their beds,  he had thrown  the amulet of  Vashanka, which he  had worn since
former times, out to sea  from this very shore -  he had had no choice.  Only so
much can be  borne from men,  so much from  gods. Zaibar, had  he the wit, would
have revelled in Tempus's barely hidden  reaction to his news that the  fearsome
mage-killer was  now in  custody, her  diamond rods  locked away  in the Hall of
Judgement awaiting her disposition.

He growled to himself, thinking about  her, her black hair winged with  grey, in
Sanctuary's unsegregated dungeons where any syphilitic rapist could have her  at
will, while he  must not touch  her at all,  or raise hand  to help her  lest he
start forces in motion he could not control. His break with the god stemmed from
her presence  in Sanctuary,  as his  endless wandering  as Vashanka's minion had
stemmed from an altercation he had over  her with a mage. If  he went  down into
the  pits and took her, the  god  would be placated; he had no desire  to reopen
relations with  Vashanka, who  had turned  His face  away from  His  servant. If
Tempus  brought   her  out under  his   own  aegis, he  would  have  the  entire
Mageguild at  his throat;  he  wanted no quarrel   with the Adepts. He  had told
her not to slay them here, where  he must maintain order  and the letter  of the
law.

By the time Kadakithis arrived in that very same chariot, its braces sticky with
Wriggly blood, Tempus  was in a  humour darker than  the drying clots,  fully as
dark as the odd, round cloud coming fast from the northeast.

Kadakithis's noble Rankan visage  was suffused with rage,  so that his skin  was
darker than his pale hair: 'But whyt In  the name of all the gods, what did  the
poor little creature ever do to you?  You owe me a eunuch, and an  explanation.'
He tapped his lacquered nails on the chariot's bronze rim.

'I have a perfect replacement in mind,' smiled Tempus smoothly, 'my lord. As for
why...  all eunuchs  are duplicitous.  This one  was an  information conduit  to
Jubal. Unless you would like to invite the slaver to policy sessions and let him
stand behind those ivory screens where your favourites eavesdrop as they choose,
I have acted well within my prerogatives  as marshal. If my name is attached  to
your palace security, then your palace will be secure.'

'Bastard! How dare you even imply that / should apologize to you! When will  you
treat  me  with the  proper  amount of  respect?  You tell  me  all eunuchs  are
treacherous, the very breath after offering me another one!'

'I am giving you  respect. Reverence I reserve  for better men than  I. When you
have attained that  dignity, we shall  both know it:  you will not  have to ask.
Until then, either trust or discharge me.' He waited, to see if the prince would
speak. Then he continued: 'As to the  eunuch I offer as replacement, I want  you
to arrange for his training. You like Jubal's work; send to him saying yours has
met  with an  accident and  you wish   to tender  another into  his care  to  be
similarly instructed. Tell him you paid a lot of money for it, and you have high
hopes.'

'You have such a eunuch?'

'I will have it.'

'And you expect me to conscion your sending  of an agent in there - aye, to  aid
you  -  without  knowing your  plan,  or  even the  specifics  of  the Wriggly's
confession?'

'Should you know, my lord, you would have to approve, or disapprove. As it lies,
you are free of onus.'

The two  men regarded  each other,  checked hostility  jumping between them like
Vashanka's own lightning in the long, dangerous pause.

Kadakithis flicked his purple mantle over his shoulder. He squinted past Tempus,
into the waning day. 'What kind of cloud is that?'

Tempus swung around in  his saddle, then back.  'That should be our  friend from
Ranke.'

The prince nodded. 'Before  he arrives, then, let  us discuss the matter  of the
female prisoner Cime.'

Tempus's horse snorted and threw its  head, dancing in place. 'There is  nothing
to discuss.'

'But... ? Why  did you not  come to me  about it? I  could have done  something,
previously. Now, I cannot...'

'I did not ask you. I am not asking you.' His voice was a blade on whetstone, so
that Kadakithis pulled himself up straight. 'It is not for me to take a hand.'

'Your own sister? You will not intervene?'

'Believe what you will, prince. I will not sift through gossip with any man,  be
he prince or king.'

The prince lost hold, then, having  been 'princed' too often back in  Ranke, and
berated the Hell Hound.

The man sat quite still upon the horse the prince had given him, garbed only  in
his loinguard  though the  day was  fading, letting  his gaze  full of festering
shadows rest  in the  prince's until  Kadakithis trailed  off, saying,  '... the
trouble with you  is that anything  they say about  you could be  true, so a man
knows not what to believe.'

'Believe  in  accordance  with  your  heart,'  the  voice  like  grinding  Stone
suggested, while the dark cloud came to hover over the beach.

It  settled,  seemingly,  into  the  sand,  and  the  horses  shied  back, necks
outstretched,   nostrils  huge.   Tempus  had  his   sorrel   up alongside   the
chariot  team and  was leaning  down to  take the  lead-horse's bridle  when  an
earsplitting clarion came from the cloud's translucent centre.

The Hell Hound raised his head then, and Kadakithis saw him shiver, saw his brow
arch, saw a  flicker of deepset  eyes within their  caves of bone  and lid. Then
again Tempus spoke to the chariot  horses, who swivelled their ears towards  him
and took his counsel, and he  let loose the lead-horse's bridle and  spurred his
own between Kadakithis's chariot and what came out of the cinereous cloud  which
had been so long descending upon them in opposition to the prevailing wind.

The man  on the  horse who  could be  seen within  the cloud  waved: a  flash of
scarlet glove,  a swirl  of burgundy  cloak. Behind  his tasselled  steed he led
another,  and it  was this  second grey  horse who  again challenged  the  other
stallions on the beach,  its eyes full of  fire. Farther back within  the cloud,
stonework could be  seen, masonry like  none in Sanctuary,  a sky more  blue and
hills more virile than any Kadakithis knew.

The first  horse, reins  flapping, was  emerging, nose  and neck casting shadows
upon solid Sanctuary sand;  then its hooves scattered  grains, and the whole  of
the beast, and its rider,  and the second horse he  led on a long tether,  stood
corporeal and motionless before the Hell Hound, while behind, the cloud  whirled
in upon itself and was gone with an audible 'pop'.

'Greetings, Riddler,' said the rider in  burgundy and scarlet, as he doffed  his
helmet with its blood-dark crest to Tempus. 'I did not expect you, Abarsis. What
could be  so urgent?'

'I heard  about the  Tros horse's  death, so I thought to
bring you  another, better  auspiced, I  hope. Since  I was  coming anyway,  our
friends suggested I  bring what you  require. I have  long wanted to  meet you.'
Spurring his mount  forward, he held  out his hand.  Red stallion and  iron grey
snaked arched necks,  thrusting forth clacking  teeth, wide-gaped jaws  emitting
squeals to  go with  flattened  ears  and rolling  eyes. Above horse hostilities
could be heard snatches of   low wordplay, parry and riposte:  '... disappointed
that you could  not build  the  temple'.'... welcome to  take my place  here and
try. The foundations  of the temple  grounds are defiled,  the priest in  charge
more  corrupt than even  politics warrants. I  wash  my hands ...''... with  the
warring imminent, how can you ... ?'

'Theomachy is no longer my burden.'

'That cannot be so.'

'... hear about the insurrection, or take my leave!'

'... His name  is unpronounceable, and  that of his  empire, but I  think we all
shall learn  it so  well we  will mumble  it in  our sleep ...'

'I don't  sleep. It  is a  matter of  the  right  field officers,  and men young
enough  not to have fought upcountry  the last time.'

'I am meeting  some Sacred Band  members here, my  old team.  Can you  provision
us?'

'Here? Well  enough to  get to thecapital and do it better. Let me be the  first
to ...'

Kadakithis, forgotten, cleared his throat.

Both men stared at  the prince severely, as  if a child had  interrupted adults.
Tempus  bowed low  in his  saddle, arm  out-swept. The  rider in  reds with  the
burnished cuirass tucked  his helmet under  his arm and  approached the chariot,
handing the second horse's tether to Tempus as he passed by.

'Abarsis, presently  of Ranke,'  said the  dark, cultured  voice of the armoured
man, whose hair swung black and glossy on a young bull's neck. His line was old,
one of  court graces  and bas-relief  faces and  upswept, regal  eyes that  were
disconcertingly wise and as  grey-blue as the huge  horse Tempus held with  some
difficulty. Ignoring the squeals of just-met stallions, the man continued: 'Lord
Prince,  may all  be well  with you,  with your  endeavours and  your  holdings,
eternally. I bear reaffirmation  of our bond to  you.' He held out  a purse, fat
with coin.

Tempus winced, imperceptibly, and took wraps of the grey horse's tether, drawing
its head close with great care, until he could bring his fist down hard  between
its ears to quiet it.

'What is this? There is enough money here to raise an army!' Scowled Kadakithis,
tossing the pouch lightly in his palm.

A polite and  perfect smile lit  the northern face,  so warmly handsome,  of the
Rankan emissary. 'Have you not told him, then, 0 Riddler?'

'No, I thought to, but got no  opportunity. Also, I am not sure whether  we will
raise it,  or whether   that is  my severance  pay.' He  threw  a  leg over  the
sorrel's neck  and slid down it,   butt to horse, dropped  its reins  and walked
away down  the beach  with his  new Tros  horse in  hand. The  Rankan hooked his
helmet  carefully on  one of  the saddle's  silver rosettes.  'You two  are  not
getting on, I take it. Prince Kadakithis,  you must be easy with him. Treat  him

as he does his horses; he needs  a gentle hand.'

'He  needs his comeuppance. He  has become insufferable! What is this money? Has
he told you I am for sale? I am not!'

'He has turned his back  on his god and the  god is letting him run.  When he is
exhausted,  the  god  will  take  him  back.  You  found  him  pleasant  enough,
previously, I would wager. He has been  set upon by your own staff, men  to whom
he was sworn and  who gave oaths to  him. What do you  expect? He will not  rest
easy until he has made that matter right.'

'What is this? My men? You mean that long unexplained absence of his? I admit he
is changed. But how do you know what he would not tell me?'

A smile like sunrise lit the elegant face of the armoured man.

'The god tells me what I need to know. How would it be, for him to come  running
to you with tales of  feuding among your ranks like  a child to his father?  His
honour precludes it. As for the ...  funds ... you hold, when we Sent  him here,
it was  with the  understanding that  should he  feel you  would make a king, he
would so inform us. This, I was told you knew.'

'In principle. But I cannot take a gift so large.'

'Take a loan, as  others before you have  had to do. There  is no time now   for
courtship.  To be   capable of  becoming  a  king ensures  no seat of  kingship,
these days.  A king  must  be more than   a man, he  must  be a  hero. It  takes
many men to make a  hero,  and special times. Opportunities approach,  with  the
up-country insurrection and a new empire rising beyond the northern range.  Were
you to distinguish  yourself  in  combat, or  field  an  army that  did,  we who
seek a change could  rally around you publicly.  You cannot do it  with what you
have, the Emperor has seen to that.'

'At what rate am I expected to pay back this loan?'

'Equal value, nothing more. If the  prince, my lord, will have patience,  I will
explain all to Your Majesty's satisfaction. That, truly, is why I am come.'

'Explain away, then.'

'First, one small digression, which touches  a deeper truth. You must have  some
idea who and what the man you call  Tempus is. I am sure you have heard  it from
your wizards and from his enemies  among the officials of the Mageguild.  Let me
add  to  that this:  Where  he goes,  the  god scatters  His  blessings. By  the
cosmological rules of  state cult and  kingship. He has  invested this endeavour
with  divine  sanction  by  his  presence. Though  he  and  the  god  have their
differences, without  him no  chance remains  that you  might triumph. My father
found  that  out.  Even sick  with  his  curse, he  is  too  valuable to  waste,
unappreciated. If  you would  rather remain  a princeling  forever, and  let the
empire slide into ruin apace,  just tell me and I  will take word home. We  will
forget this matter of the kingship and this corollary matter of a small standing
army, and I will release Tempus. He would as soon it, I assure you.'

'Your father? Who in the God's Eye are you?'

'Ah, my arrogance is  unforgivable; I thought you  would know me. We  are all so
full of ourselves these days, it is no wonder events have come to such a pass. 1
am Man of the God in Upper Ranke, Sole Friend to the Mercenaries, the Hero,  Son
of the Defender, and so forth.'

'High Priest of Vashanka.'

'In the Upper Land.'

'My family and  yours thinned each  other's line,' stated  Kadakithis baldly, no
apology, no  regret in  his words.  Yet he  looked differently  upon the  other,
thinking they were of an age, both wielding wooden swords in shady courts  while
the slaughter raged, far off at the fronts.

'Unto eradication,' remarked the  dark young man. 'But  we did not contest,  and
now there is a different enemy, a common threat. It is enough.'

'And you and Tempus have never met?'

'He knew my  father. And when I was ten, and my father died and our armies  were
disbanded, he  found a  home for  me. Later,  when I  came  to  the god  and the
mercenaries'  guild,  I  tried to  see him.  He would  not meet   with me.'   He
shrugged, looking  over his   shoulder at  the man  walking the blue-grey  horse
into blue-grey  shadows falling  over  the  blue-black sea.   'Everyone has  his
hero,  you know.   A god  is  not enough for  a whole man;  he craves a  fleshly
model. When he sent  to me for a horse,  and the god approved it, I was  elated.
Now, perhaps, I can  do more. The horse may  not have died in vain, after all.'

'I  do not understand you. Priest.'

'My Lord,  do not make me too holy. I am Vashanka's priest: I know many requiems
and  oaths,  and thirty-three  ways  to fire  a  warrior's  bier.  They  call me
Stepson, in  the mercenaries'  guild. I  would be  pleased if  you would call me
that, and let me talk  to  you at greater length  about a future in  which  your
destiny and the wishes of the Storm God, our Lord, could come to be the same.'

'I am  not sure  I can  find room  in my  heart for  such a god; it is difficult
enough to  pretend to  piety,' grated  Kadakithis, squinting after Tempus in the
dusk.

'You will,  you will,'  promised the  priest, and  dismounted from  his horse to
approach Tempus's  ground-tied sorrel.  Abarsis reached  down, running  his hand
along the  beast's white-stocking'd  leg. 'Look,  Prince,' he  said, craning his
neck up to see Kadakithis's face as his fingers tugged at the gold chain  wedged
in the  weight-cleat on  the horse's  shoe. At  the end  of the chain, sandy but
shining gold, was an amulet. 'The god wants him back.'


3

The mercenaries drifted into  Sanctuary dusty from  their westward trek  or blue
lipped from their  rough sea passage  and wherever they  went they made  hellish
what  before  had  been  merely  dissolute. The  Maze  was  no  longer  safe for
pickpocket  or pander;  usurer and  sorcerer scuttled  in haste  from street  to
doorway, where before  they had swaggered virtually unchallenged, crime lords in
fear of nothing.

Now the whores walked bowlegged,  dreamy-eyed, parading their new finery  in the
early hours  of the  morning while  most mercenaries  slept; the taverns changed
shifts but feared to close their doors, lest a mercenary find that an excuse  to
take offence. Even  so early in  the day, the  inns were full  of brawls and the
gutters full of casualties. The garrison soldiers and the Hell Hounds could  not
be omnipresent: wherever  they were not,  mercenaries took sport,  and they were
not in the Maze this morning.

Though  Sanctuary  had never  been  so prosperous,  every  guild and  union  and
citizens' group had sent representatives to the palace at sunrise to complain.

Lastel, a.k.a.  One-Thumb, could  not understand  why the  Sanctuarites were  so
unhappy. Lastel  was very  happy: he  was alive  and back  at the Vulgar Unicorn
tending bar,  and the  Unicorn was  making money,  and money  made Lastel happy,
always.  Being  alive  was  something Lastel  had  not  fully  appreciated until
recently, when he had spent aeons dying a subjective death in thrall to a  spell
he had paid to have laid upon his own person, a spell turned against him by  the
sons of its deceased creator, Mizraith of the Hazard class, and dispelled by  he
knew not whom. Though every night he expected his mysterious benefactor to sidle
up to the bar and  demand payment, no one ever  came and said: 'Lastel, I  saved
you. I am the one. Now show your gratitude.' But he knew very well that  someday
soon, someone would. He did not  let this irritation besmirch his happiness.  He
had got a new shipment of Caronne  krrf (black, pure drug, foil stamped, a  full
weight of it, enough to set every mercenary in Sanctuary at the kill) and it was
so  good that he considered refraining  from offering  it on the market.  Having
considered,  he decided  to keep  it all  for himself,  and  so  was very  happy
indeed,  no matter how many  fistfights broke  out in  the bar, or how high  the
sun was, these days, before he got to bed ...

Tempus, too, was happy that morning,  with the magnificent Tros horse under  him
and signs of war all around him. Despite the hour, he saw enough rough  hoplites
and dour artillery  fighters with their  crank-bows (whose springs  were plaited
from women's hair) and their quarrels  (barbed and poisoned) to let him  know he
was not dreaming: these  did not bestir themselves  from daydreams! The war  was
real to them.  And any one  of them could  be his. He  felt his troop-levy money
cuddled tight against his  groin, and he whistled  tunelessly as the Tros  horse
threaded his way towards the Vulgar Unicorn. One-Thumb was not going to be happy
much longer. Tempus left  the Tros horse on  its own recognizance, dropping  the
reins and telling  it, 'Stay.' Anyone  who thought it  merely ripe for  stealing
would  learn a  lesson about  the strain  which is  bred only  in Syr  from  the
original line ofTros's.

There were  a few  locals in  the Unicorn,  most snoring  over tables along with
other, bagged trash ready to be dragged out into the street.

One-Thumb was behind his bar, big shoulders slumped, washing mugs while watching
everything through the bronze mirror he had had installed over his stock.

Tempus let  his heels  crack against  the board  and his  armour clatter: he had
dressed for  this, from  a box  he had  thought he  might never  again open. The
wrestler's body which Lastel had  built came alert, pirouetted smoothly  to face
him,  staring unabashedly  at the  nearly god-sized  apparition in  leopard-skin
mantle  and  helmet  set  with  boar's  tusks,  wearing  an  antique   enamelled
breastplate and bearing a bow of ibex-horn morticed with a golden grip.

'What  in  Azyuna's  twat   are you?'   bellowed  One-Thumb,   as  every  waking
customer  he had hastened to depart.

'I,' said  Tempus,  reaching  the  bar  and  removing  his  helmet  so  that his
yarrow honey hair spilled  forth, 'am Tempus. We  have not chanced to  meet.' He
held  out a hand whose wrist bore a golden bracer.

'Marshal,' acknowledged One-Thumb, carefully, his pate creasing with his  frown.
'It is good to know you are on our side. But you cannot come in here ... My -'

'I am here, Lastel. While you were so inexplicably absent, I was often here, and
received the courtesy of service without Charge. But now I am not here to eat or
drink with those who recognize  me for one who is  fully as corrupt as are  they
themselves. There are those  who know where you  were, Lastel, and why  -and one
who broke  the curse  that bound  you. Truly,  if you  had cared, you could have
found out.' Twice,  Tempus called One-Thumb  by his true  name, which no  palace
personage or Maze-dweller should have known enough to do.

'Marshal, let us go to my office.' Lastel fairly ramped behind his bar.

'No time, krrf-dealer. Mizraith's sons, Stefab and Marype; Markmor: those  three
and more  were slain by the woman  Cime who is in the  pits awaiting sentence. I
thought that you should know.'

'What are you saying? You want me to break her out? Do it yourself.'

'No one', said  the Hell Hound,  'can break anyone  out of the  palace. I am  in
charge of security there. If she were to escape, I would be very busy explaining
to Kadakithis what went wrong. And tonight I am having a reunion here with fifty
of my  old friends  from the  mercenaries' guild.  I would  not want anything to
spoil it. And, too,  I ask no man  to take me on  faith, or go where  I have not
been.' He grinned like the Destroyer, gesturing around. 'You had better order in
extra. And half a  piece ofkrrf, your courtesy  to me, of course.  Once you have
seen my men when well in hand, you will be better able to conjecture what  might
happen should  they get  out of  hand, and  weigh your  alternatives. Most men I
solicit find it to their benefit to  work in accord with me. Should you  deem it
so for you, we will fix a time, and discuss it.'

Not the  cipher's meaning,  nor the plan it shrouded,  nor the threat that  gave
it  teeth were lost on  the  man who did   not like  to be   called 'Lastel'  in
the  Maze. He bellowed: 'You are addled.  You cannot do this. I cannot do  that!
As for krrf, I  know nothing about... any   ... krrf.'  But the   man was  gone,
and  Lastel was trembling with rage, thinking he had been in purgatory too long;
it .had eroded his nerves!


4

When the dusk  cooled the Maze,  Shadowspawn ducked into  the Unicorn. One-Thumb
was not in evidence; Two-Thumbs was behind the bar.

He sat with the  wall supporting him, where  the story-teller liked to  sit, and
watched the  door, waiting  for the  crowd to  thicken, tongues  to loosen, some
caravan driver to boast of his wares. The mercenaries were no  boon to a  thief,
but dangerous playmates,  like Kadakithis's palace  women. He did   not want  to
be   intrigued;   he   was   being   distracted   moment   by   moment.   As   a
consequence, he was very careful to keep his mind on business, so that he  would
not come up hungry next Ilsday, when his funds, if not increased, would run out.

Shadowspawn was dark as iron and sharp like a hawk; a. cranked crossbow,  loaded
with cold  bronze and  quarrels to  spare. He  wore knives  where a professional
wears them, and sapphire and gold and crimson to draw the eye from his treasured
blades.

Sanctuary had spawned him: he was hers, and he had thought nothing she did could
surprise him. But  when the mercenaries  arrived as do  clients to a  strumpet's
house, he  had been  hurt like  a whore's  bastard when  first he learns how his
mother feeds him.

It was better, now; he understood the new rules.

One rule was: get up  and give them your seat.  Hanse gave no one his  seat.  He
might recall   pressing business  elsewhere,  or  see someone   he just  had  to
hasten  over  to greet.  Tonight,  he remembered  nothing  earlier forgotten; he
saw no  one  he  cared to   bestir himself  to  meet. He prepared  to defend his
place as seven mercenf aries filled the doorway with plumes and pelts and  hilts
and mail,  and looked his  way.  But they went in   a group to the  bar,  though
one,  in a  black mantle,  with  iron  at chest  and head  and wrists,   pointed
directly to him like a man sighting his arrow along an outstretched arm.

The man  talked to  Two-Thumbs awhile,  took off  his helmet  with its horsehair
crests  that seemed  blood-red, and  approached Hanse's  table alone.  A  shiver
coursed the thief's flesh, from the top of his black thatch to his toetips.

The mercenary reached him in a dozen swinging strides, drawing a stabbing  sword
as he came on. If not for the  fact that the other hand held a mug,  Shadowspawn
would have aired iron by the time the man (or youth from his smooth, heartshaped
face) spoke: 'Shadowspawn,  called Hanse? I  am Stepson, called  Abarsis. I have
been hoping to find you.' With a grin full of dazzling teeth, the mercenary  put
the ivory-hiked sword flat  in the wet-rings on  the table, and sat,  both hands
well in evidence. clasped under his chin.

Hanse gripped  his beltknife  tightly. Then  the panic-flash  receded, and  time
passed, instead of piling all its instants terri-fyingly on top of one  another.
Hanse knew that he was no coward, that he was plagued by flashbacks from the two
times  he had  been tapped  with the  fearstick ofVashanka,  but his  chest  was
heaving,  and the  mercenary might  see. He  slumped back,  for camouflage.  The
mercenary with the expensive taste in  accoutrements could be no older than  he.
And yet, only  a king's son  could afford such  a blade as  that before him.  He
reached out hesitantly to touch its silvered guard, its garnet pommel, his  gaze
locked  in the  sell-sword's soulless  pale one,  his hand  slipping closer  and
closer to the elegant sword of its own accord.

'Ah, you do like it  then,' said Stepson. 'I was  not sure. You will take  it, I
hope. It  is customary  in my  country, when  meeting a  man who  has  performed
heroically   to  the  benefit  of   one's house,   to  give a  small  token.' He
withdrew  a  silver scabbard   from his  belt,  laid  it with   the sword, which
Hanse put down as if burned.

'What did I ever do for you?'

'Did you not rescue the Riddler from great peril?'

'Who?' The tanned face grinned ingenuously. 'A truly brave man does not boast. I
understand. Or  is it  a deeper  thing? That  -' He  leaned forward;  he smelled
sweet like new-mown hay '- is truly what I need to know. Do you comprehend me?'

Hanse gave him an eagle's look, and  shook his head slowly, his fingers flat  on
the table, near the magnificent sword that the mercenary Stepson had offered  to
give him. The Riddler? He knew no  one of  that name. 'Are  you protecting  him?
There  is no   need, not  from me.  Tell me,  Shadowspawn, are  you and   Tempus
lovers?'

'Mother-!' His favourite knife leapt into his palm, unbidden. He looked at it in
his own grasp in  consternation, and dropped his  other hand over it,  and began
paring  his nails.  Tempus! The  Riddler? Hanse's  eyes caressed  the  covetable
blade. 'I helped him out, once or twice, that's all.'

'That is good,' the  youth across from him  approved. 'Then we will  not have to
fight over him. And, too, we could work a certain bargain, service for  service,
that would make me happy and you,  I modestly estimate, a gentleman of ease  for
at least six months.'

'I'm listening,' said Shadowspawn, taking a chance, commending his knife to  its
sheath. The short sword too, he handled, fitting it in the scabbard and  drawing
it  out,  fascinated  by  the  alert  scrutiny  of  Abarsis  the  Stepson's  six
companions.

When he began hearing the words 'diamond rods' and 'Hall of Judgement' he  waxed
uneasy. But by  then, he could  not sec any  way that he  could allow himself to
appear less than  heroic in the  pale, blue-grey eyes  of Stepson. Not  when the
amount of  money Stepson  had offered  hung in  the balance,  not when the nobly
fashioned sword he had  been given as if  it were merely serviceable  proclaimed
the  flashy mercenary's ability  to pay  that  amount. But too, if he  would pay
that,  he  would pay  more.  Hanse was  not  so enthralled  by  the mercenaries'
mystique  to   hasten into   one's  pay  without  some   good Sanctuary  barter.
Watching Stepson's  six formidable   companions, waiting  like purebred  hunting
dogs  curried for  show, he  spied a  certain litheness  about them,  an uncanny
cleanliness of limb  and  nearness of  girded hips. Close   friends, these. Very
close.

Abarsis's  sonorous  voice  had  ceased,  waiting  for  Hanse's  response.   The
disconcertingly pale eyes followed Hanse's stare, frank now, to his companions.

'Will you  say yea,  then, friend  of the  Riddler? And  become my friend, also?
These other  friends of  mine await  only your  willingness to  embrace you as a
brother.'

'I own,' Hanse muttered.

Abarsis raised one winged brow. 'So? They  are members of a Sacred Band, my  old
one; most prized officers; heroes, every pair.' He judged Hanse's face. 'Can  it
be you do not have the custom, in the south? From your mien I must believe  it.'
His voice was liquid,  like deep running water.  'These men, to me  and to their
chosen partners, have sworn  to forsake life before  honour, to stand and  never
retreat, to fall where they fight if need be, shoulder to shoulder. There is  no
more hallowed tryst than theirs. Had I a thousand such, I would rule the earth.'

'Which one is yours?' Hanse tried not to sneer, to be conversational,  unshaken,
but his eyes could find no comfortable place to rest, so that at last he took up
the gift-sword and examined the hieratic writing on its blade.

'None. I left  them, long ago,  when my partner  went up to  heaven. Now I  have
hired them back, to serve a need.  It is strictly a love of spirit,  Hanse, that
is required. And only in Sacred Bands is a mercenary asked so much.'

'Still, it's not my style.'

'You sound disappointed.'

'I am. In your offer. Pay me twice that, and I will get the items you desire. As
for your friends, I don't care if you bugger them each twice daily. Just as long
as it's not part of my job and no one thinks I  am joining  any  organizations.'
A swift,  appreciative smile  touched Abarsis. 'Twice, then. I am at your mercy'

'I stole those diamond rods once before, for Tem-, for the Riddler. He'll   just
give them back  to her, after  she does whatever  it is she does for him. I  had
her once, and she did nothing for  me that any other whore would not  do.'

'You what? Ah, you do not know  about them, then? Their legend, their curse?'

'Legend? Curse?  I knew  she was  a sorceress.  Tell me   about it!  Am I in any
danger? You can forget the whole idea, about the rods. I keep shut  of sorcery.'

'Hardly sorcery,  no  need to worry.   They cannot transmit  any of it.  When he
was young and she  was a virgin, he  was a prince and  a fool of ideals. 1 heard
it that the  god is his  true father, and  thus she is  not his sibling, but you
know how  legends  are.  As a   princess, her  sire  looked  for an advantageous
marriage. An archmage of  a power not seen  anymore made an offer,  at about the
time  the   Riddler  renounced  his  claim  to  the  throne  and   retired  to a
philosopher's cave. She went to him begging aid, some way out of an unacceptable
situation, and convinced him that should  she be deflowered, the mage would  not
want her, and of all men the Riddler was the only one she trusted with the task;
anyone else would despoil her. She seduced him easily, for he had loved her. all
his young life and that unacceptable  attraction to flesh of his flesh  was part
of what drove him  from his primogeniture. She  loved nothing but herself;  some
things never  change. He  was wise  enough to  know he  brought destruction upon
himself, but men are  prone to ruin from  women. In passion, he  could not think
clearly; when it left him he went to Vashanka's altar and threw himself upon it,
consigning his  fate to  the god.  The god  took him  up, and  when the archmage
appeared with four eyes spitting fire and four mouths breathing fearful  curses,
the god's aegis partly shielded him. Yet, the curse holds. He wanders  eternally
bringing death to whomever  loves him and being  spurned by whomsoever he  shall
love.  She must offer  herself for pay  to any comer,  take no gift  of kindness
on pain  of showing  all her  awful years,  incapable of  giving love as she has
always been.  So  thus, the  gods,  too, are  barred  to her,  and  she is truly
damned.'

Hanse just stared at Stepson, whose  voice had grown husky in the  telling, when
the mercenary left off.

'Now, will you help me? Please. He would want it to be you.'

Hanse made a sign.

' Would want  it to be  me?' the thief  frowned. 'He does  not know about this?'
There came the sound of Shadowspawn's bench scraping back.

Abarsis reached out to touch the thief's shoulder, a move quick as lightning and
soft as a butterfly's landing. 'One must do for a friend what the friend  cannot
do for himself.  With such a  man, opportunities  of  this sort come  seldom. If
not for him, or for  your price, or for whatever  you hold sacred, do this thing
for me, and I will be eternally in your debt.'

A  sibilant sound,  part impatience,  part exasperation,  part irritation,  came
sliding down Shadowspawn's hawkish nose.

'Hanse?'

'You are going to surprise him with this deed, done? What if he has no taste for
surprises? What if  you are wrong,  and he refrains  from aiding her  because he
prefers her right where she is? And besides, I am staying away from him and  his
affairs.'

'No surprise: I will tell him once I have arranged it. I will make you one  more
offer: Half again the doubled fee  you suggested, to ease your doubts.  But that
is my final bid.'

Shadowspawn squinted at the heartshaped  face of Stepson. Then, without  a word,
he scooped up the short stabbing sword in its silver sheath, and found it a home
in his belt. 'Done,' said Hanse.

'Good. Then, will you meet  my companions?' The long-fingered, graceful  hand of
Stepson, called Abarsis, made a gesture that brought them, all smiles and  manly
welcomes, from their exile by the bar.


5

Kurd, the vivisectionist who  had tried his skills  on Tempus, was found  a fair
way from his adobe workshop, his  gut stretched out for thirty feet  before him:
he had  been dragged  by the  entrails; the  hole cut  in his  belly to pull the
intestines out was made by an expert: a mercenary had to be at fault. But  there
were so many mercenaries in Sanctuary, and so few friends of the vivisectionist,
that the matter was  not pursued. The matter  of the Hell Hound  Razkuli's head,
however, was  much more  serious. Zaibar   (who knew  why both   had died and at
whose hands,  and who  feared for  his own  life)  went  to Kadakithis  with his
friend's  staring eyes under one arm, sick and still tasting vomit, and told the
prince how Tempus  had  come riding through the  gates at dawn and  called up to
him where he was checking pass-bys in the gatehouse: 'Zaibar, I've a message for
you.'

'Yo!' Zaibar had waved. 'Catch,' Tempus  laughed, and threw something up to  him
while the grey horse reared,   uttered a shrill, demonic  scream,  and clattered
off  by  the  time  Zaibar's  hand  had  said  head:  human;  and  his eyes  had
said,  head: Razkuli's and then begun to fill with tears.

Kadakithis listened  to his  story, looking  beyond him  out of  the window  the
entire time. When Zaibar had finished, the prince said, 'Well, I don't know what
you expected, trying to take him down so clumsily.'

'But he said it was a message for me,' Zaibar entreated, caught his own pleading
tone, scowled and straightened up.

'Then take it to heart, man. I can't allow you two to continue feuding. If it is
anything other than  simple feuding, I  do not want  to know about  it. Stepson,
called Abarsis, told me to expect something like this! I demand a stop to it!'

'Stepson!' Tall, lank Zaibar snarled like a man invoking a vengeful god in close
fighting. 'An ex-Sacred Bander  looking for glory and  death with honour, in  no
particular order! Stepson  told you? The  Slaughter Priest? My  lord prince, you
are  keeping deadly  company these  days! Are  all the  gods of  the armies  in
Sanctuary, then, along with their familiars, the mercenary hordes? I had  wanted
to discuss with you what could be done to curb them-'

'Zaibar,' interrupted Kadakithis firmly. 'In the matter of gods, I hold firm:  I
do not believe in  them. In the matter  of mercenaries, let them  be. You broach
subjects too sensitive for your station. In the matter of Tempus, I will talk to
him. You change your attitude. Now, if that is all... ?'

It was all. It was nearly the  end of Zaibar the Hell Hound's entire  career; he
almost struck  his commander-in-chief.  But he  refrained, though  he could  not
utter even a civil goodbye. He went to his billet and he went into the town, and
he worked wrath out of himself, as best he could. The dregs he washed away  with
drink, and after that he went  to visit Myrtis, the whoremistress of  Aphrodisia
House who knew  how to soothe  him. And she,  seeing his heart  breaking and his
fists shaking, asked him  nothing about why he  had come, after staying  away so
long,  but took  him to  her breast  and healed  what she  might of  his  hurts,
remembering that all the protection he provided her and good he did for her,  he
did because of a love spell she had bought and cast on him long since. and  thus
she owed him at least one night to match his dreams.


6

Tempus had gone among his own kind,  after he left the barracks. He had  checked
in at the guild hostel north of the palace, once again in leopard and bronze and
iron, and he was welcome there.

Why he had kept himself from it for so long, he could not have reasoned,  unless
it was that without these friends of former times the camaraderie would not have
been as sweet.

He went to the  sideboard and got hot  mulled wine from a  krater, sprinkling in
goat's cheese and grain, and took the posset to a corner, so the men could  come
to him as they would.

The problem of the eunuch was still unsolved: finding a suitable replacement was
not going to be easy: there were not many eunuchs in the mercenaries' guild. The
clubroom was red as dying day and dark as backlit mountains, and he  felt better
for  having  come.  So, when  Abarsis,  high  priest of  Upper Ranke,  left his
companions and  approached, but  did not  sit among  the mercenaries  Tempus had
collected, he said to the nine that he would see them at the appointed time, and
to the iron-clad one.

'Life to you. Stepson. Please join me.'

'Life to  you, Riddler,  and everlasting  glory.' Cup  in hand,  he sipped  pure
water, eyes hardly darker never leaving Tempus's face. 'Is it Sanctuary that has
driven you to drink?' He indicated the posset.

'The dry soul is  wisest? Not at the  Empire's anus, where the  water is chancy.
Anyway, those things  I said long  ago and far  away: do not  hold me to  any of
that.'

The smooth cheek of  Stepson ticced. 'I must,'  he murmured. 'You are  the man I
have emulated.  All my  life I  have listened  after word  of you  and collected
intelligence of  you and  studied what  you left  us in  legend and stone in the
north. Listen: "War is sire  of all and king of  all, and some He has  made gods
and some men, some bond  and some free". Or: "War  is ours in common; strife  is
justice; all things come  into being and pass  away through strife". You  see, I
know your work, even those other names you have used. Do not make me speak them.
I would work with you, 0 Sleepless  One. It will be the pinnacle of  my career.'
He flashed Tempus a bolt of naked entreaty, then his gaze flickered away and  he
rushed on:  'You need  me. Who  else will  suit? Who  else here  has a brand and
gelding's scars? And time in the  arena as a gladiator, like Jubal  himself? Who
could intrigue him, much less seduce him among these? And though I -'

'No.'

Abarsis dug in  his belt and  tossed a golden  amulet on to  the table. 'The god
will not give you up; this was caught in the sorrel's new  shoe. That teacher of
mine whom you remember ...?'

'I know the man,' Tempus said grimly.

'He thinks that Sanctuary is the endpoint of existence; that those who come here
are damned beyond redemption; that Sanctuary is Hell.'

'Then how  is it.  Stepson,' said  Tempus almost  kindly, 'that  folk experience
fleshly death  here? So  far as  I know,  I am  the only  soul in  Sanctuary who
suffers eternally, with the possible exception of my sister, who may not have  a
soul. Learn not to listen to what  people say, priest. A man's own mistakes  are
load enough, without adding others'.'

'Then let me  be your choice!  There is no  time to find  some other eunuch.' He
said it flatly, without bitterness, a man fielding logic. 'I can also bring  you
a few fighters whom you might not know and who would not dare, on their own,  to
approach you. My Sacred  Band yearns to serve  you. You dispense your  favour to
provincials and foreigners who barely recognize their honour! Give it to me, who
craves little else  ...! The prince  who would be  king will not  expose me, but
pass me  on to  Jubal as  an untrained  boy. I  am a  little old  for it, but in
Sanctuary, those niceties seem  not to matter. I  have increased your lot  here.
You owe me this opportunity.'

Tempus stirred his cooling posset  with a finger. "That prince...'  Changing the
subject, he  sighed glumly,  a sound  like rattling  bones. 'He  will never be a
Great King, such as your father. Can you  tell me why the god is taking such  an
interest?'

'The god will  tell you, when  you make of  the Tros horse  a sacrifice. Or some
person. Then  He will  be mollified.  You know  the ritual.  If it  be a man you
choose, I will gladly volunteer... Ah, you understand me, now? I do not want  to
frighten you ..."

'Take no thought of it.'

'Then... though I  risk your displeasure,  yet I say  it: I love  you. One night
with you would be a surfeit, to work under you is my long-held dream. Let me  do
this, which none can do better, which no whole man can do for you at all!'

'I cede you the privilege, since you  value it so; but there is no  telling what
Jubal's hired hawk-masks might do to the eunuch we send in there.'

'With your blessing and the god's, I am fearless. And you will be close by, busy
attacking Black Jubal's fortress. While  you arc arresting  the slavemaster  for
his  treasonous   spying, whosoever   will  make  good  the   woman's escape.  I
understand your thought;  I have arranged  for  the retrieval  of her  weapons.'
Tempus chuckled. 'I  hardly know what to say.'

'Say you look kindly upon me, that I am more than a bad memory to you.'

Shaking his head, Tempus  took the amulet Abarsis  held out to him.  'Come then.
Stepson, we will see what part of your glorious expectations we can fulfil.'


7

It  was said,  ever after,  that the  Storm God  took part  in the  sack of  the
slaver's estate. Lightning  crawled along the  gatehouses of its  defensive wall
and rolled in balls through the inner  court and turned the oaken gates to  ash.
The ground rumbled and buckled and bucked and great crumbling cracks appeared in
its  inner  sanctum, where  the  slaver dallied  with  the glossy-haired  eunuch
Kadakithis had  just sent  up for  training. It  was profligate  waste to make a
fancy boy out of such a slave: the  arena had muscled him up and time had  grown
him up, and to squeeze the two or three remaining years of that sort of pleasure
out of him seemed to the slaver a  pity. If truth be known, blood like his  came
so  rarely  to  the  slavepens  that  gelding  him  was  a  sin  against  future
generations: had Jubal got him early on - when the cuts had been made, at  nine,
or ten - he would have raised him with great pains and put him to stud. But  his
brand and tawny skin smacked of northern mountains and high wizards' keeps where
the wars had raged so savagely that  no man was proud to remember what  had been
done there, on either side.

Eventually, he left the eunuch  chained by the neck to  the foot of his bed  and
went to  see what  the yelling  and the  shouting and  the blue  flashes and the
quivering floorboards could possibly mean.

What he saw from his threshold he did not understand, but he came striding back,
stripping off his robe as  he passed by the bed,  rushing to arm himself and  do
battle against the infernal forces of  this enemy, and, it seemed, the  whole of
the night.

Naphtha fireballs came shooting over his walls into the courtyard; naming arrows
torqued  from  spring-wound  bows;  javelins  and  swordplay  glittered nastily,
singing as they slew in soft susurrusings Jubal had hoped never to hear there.

It was eerily quiet: no shouting,  not from his hawk-masks, or the  adversaries;
the fire crackled  and the horses  snorted and groaned  like the men  where they
fell.

Jubal recollected the sinking feeling he had had in his stomach when Zaibar  had
confided to him that the bellows of anguish emanating from the  vivisectionist's
workshop were the  Hell Hound Tempus's  agonies, the forebodings  he had endured
when a group of his beleaguered sell-swords went after the man who killed  those
who wore the mask of Jubal's service for sport, and failed to down him.

That night, it was too late for thinking. There was time enough only for  wading
into the thick of battle  (if he could just find  it: the attack was from  every
side, out  of darkness);  hollering orders;  mustering point  leaders (two); and
appointing replacements for the dead  (three). Then he heard whoops  and abysmal
screams and realized that someone had   let the slaves out of their  pens; those
who  had  nothing to  lose  bore haphazard  arms,  but sought  only   death with
vengeance. Jubal,   seeing wide,   white rimmed   eyes and  murderous mouths and
the new eunuch   from Kadakithis's palace   dancing ahead of  the pack of  them,
started to  run. The  key to  its collar  had been  in his  robe; he  remembered
discarding it, within the eunuch's reach.

He ran  in a  private wash  of terror,  in a  bubble through  which other sounds
hardly penetrated, but where his breathing reverberated stentorian, rasping, and
his heart gonged loud in his ears. He ran looking back over his shoulder, and he
saw some leopard-pelted apparition with a horn bow in hand come sliding down the
gatehouse wall. He ran  until he reached the  stable, until he stumbled  over  a
dead  hawk-mask, and  then he  heard everything, cacophonously, that had been so
muted before: swords  rasping; panoplies rattling;  bodies thudding and  greaved
men running; quarrels  whispering bright death  as they passed  through the dark
press; javelins ringing as they struck  helm or shield suddenly limned in  lurid
fiery light.

Fire? Behind Jubal flame  licked out of the  stable windows and horses  whistled
their death screams.

The heat was singeing. He drew his  sword and turned in a fluid motion,  judging
himself as he was wont  to do when the crowds  had been about him in  applauding
tiers and he must kill to live to kill another day, and do so pleasingly.

He felt the thrill of it, the immediacy of it, the joy of the arena, and as  the
pack  of freed  slaves came  shouting, he  picked out  the prince's  eunuch  and
reached to wrest  a spear  from the  dead hawk-mask's  grip. He  hefted it, left
handed,  to cast,  just as  the man  in leopard  pelt and  cuirass and  a  dozen
mercenaries came  between him  and the  slaves, cutting  him off  from his final
refuge, the stairs to the westward wall.

Behind him, the flames seemed hotter, so that he was glad he had not stopped for
armour.  He threw  the spear,  and it  rammed home  in  the  eunuch's  gut.  The
leopard leader  came forward,  alone, sword tip gesturing three times, leftward.

Was it Tempus, beneath that frightful armour? Jubal raised his own blade to  his
brow in acceptance, and moved to where his antagonist indicated, but the leopard
leader was  talking over  his shoulder  to his  front-line mercenaries, three of
whom were clustered around  the downed eunuch. Then  one archer came abreast  of
the leader, touched  his leopard pelt.  And that bowman  kept a nocked  arrow on
Jubal, while the leader sheathed his  sword and walked away, to join  the little
knot around the eunuch.

Someone had broken off the haft; Jubal heard the grunt and the snap of wood  and
saw the shaft discarded. Then arrows  whizzed in quick succession into both  his
knees and beyond the shattering pain he knew nothing more.


8

Tempus knelt  over Abarsis,  bleeding out  his life  naked in  the dirt. 'Get me
light,'  he rasped.  Tossing his  helmet aside,  he bent  down until  his  cheek
touched Stepson's knotted, hairless belly.  The whole bronze head of  the spear,
barbs and all, was deep in him.  Under his lowest rib, the shattered haft  stuck
out, quivering  as he  breathed. The  torch was  brought; the  better light told
Tempus there was no use in cutting the spearhead loose; one flange was up  under
the low  rib; vital  fluids oozed  out with  the youth's  blood. Out  of age-old
custom, Tempus laid his mouth upon the wound and sucked the blood and  swallowed
it, then raised his head and shook it  to those who waited with a hot blade  and
hopeful, silent faces. 'Get him some water, no wine. And give him some air.'

They moved back and as the Sacred Bander who had been holding Abarsis's head put
it down, the wounded one murmured;  he coughed,  and his  frame shuddered,   one
hand  clutching  spasmodically at  the spear.  'Rest now.  Stepson. You have got
your  wish. You  will be  my sacrifice   to the  god.' He  covered the  youth's
nakedness with his mantle, taking the gory hand from the broken haft, letting it
fasten on his own.

Then  the  blue-grey eyes  of  Abarsis opened  in  a face  pale  with pain,  and
something else: 'I am not frightened, with you and the god beside me.'

Tempus put an  arm under his  head and gathered  him up, pulling  him across his
lap. 'Hush, now.'

'Soon, soon,' said the paling lips. 'I did well for you. Tell me so ... that you
are content.  0 Riddler,  so well  do I  love you,  I go  to my god singing your
praises. When I meet my father, I will tell him ... I... fought beside you.'

'Go with  more than  that. Stepson,'  whispered Tempus,  and leaned forward, and
kissed him gently on  the mouth, and Abarsis  breathed out his soul  while their
lips yet touched.


9

Now, Hanse had got the rods with no difficulty, as Stepson had promised he would
be  able to  do, citing  Tempus's control  of palace  personnel as  surety.  And
afterwards, the young mercenary's invitation to come and watch them fight up  at
Jubal's rang in his head until, to banish it, he went out to take a look.

He knew it was foolish to go, for it was foolish even to know, but he knew  that
he wanted to be able  to say, 'Yes, I saw.  It was wonderful,' the next  time he
saw the young mercenary,  so he went very  carefully and cautiously. If  he were
stopped, he would  have all of  Stepson's Sacred Band  as witnesses that  he had
been at Jubal's, and nowhere near the palace and its Hall of Judgement.

He knew those excuses were flimsy, but he  wanted to go, and he did not want  to
delve into  why: the  lure of  mercenary life  was heady  in his nostrils; if he
admitted how sweet it seemed, he might  be lost. If he went, perchance he  would
see something not so sweet, or so intoxicating, something which would wash  away
all this talk of  friendship and honour. So  he went, and hid  on the roof of  a
gatehouse abandoned in the confusion. Thus he saw all that transpired.

When he could  in safety leave  his roost, he  followed the pair  of grey horses
bearing Tempus and  the corpse ridgeward,  stealing the first  mount he came  to
that looked likely.

The  sun was  risen when  Tempus reached  the ridgetop  and called  out  behind:
'Whoever you are, ride up,' and set about gathering branches to make a bier.

Hanse rode to the edge of the outcropping of rock on which Tempus piled wood and
said: 'Well, accursed  one, are you  and your god  replete? Stepson told  me all
about it.'

The man straightened up, eyes like flames, and put his hand to the small of  his
back: 'What do  you want, Shadowspawn?  A man who  is respectful does  not sling
insults over the ears of the dead. If you are here for him, then welcome. If you
are here for me, I assure you, your timing is ill.'

'I am here for him,  friend. What think you, that  I would come here to  console
you in your grief when it was his  love for you that he died  of? He  asked me,'
Hanse continued, not  dismounting, 'to get these. He was  going to give them  to
you.'  He reached  for the  diamond rods,  wrapped in hide, he had stolen.

'Stay your hand, and your feelings. Both are misplaced. Do not judge what you do
not understand. As for the rods, Abarsis  was mistaken as to what I wanted  done
with them.  If you  are finishing  your first  mercenary's commission, then give
them  to One-Thumb.  Tell him  they are  for his  benefactor. Then  it is  done.
Someone of the  Sacred Band will  seek you out  and pay you.  Do not worry about
that.  Now, if  you would  honour Abarsis,  dismount.' The  struggle obvious  in
Tempus's face  for control  was chilling,  where nothing  unintentioned was ever
seen. 'Otherwise, please leave now, friend, while we are yet friends. I am in no
mood for living boys today.'

So Hanse slid from  the horse and stalked  over to the corpse  stage-whispering,
'Mouth me no swill, Doomface. If this  is how your friends fare, I'd as  soon be
relieved of  the honour,'  and flipped  back the  shroud. 'His  eyes are  open.'
Shadowspawn reached out to close them. 'Don't. Let him see where he goes.'

They glared a  time at each  other above the  staring corpse while  a red-tailed
hawk circled overhead, its shadow caressing the pale, dead face.

Then Hanse knelt stiffly, took a  coin from his belt, slid it  between Stepson's
slightly parted lips, and murmured  something low. Rising, he turned  and strode
to his stolen horse  and scrambled clumsily astride,  reining it round and  away
without a single backward glance.

When Tempus had the bier all made, and Abarsis arranged on it to the last glossy
hair, and a spark  nursed to consuming flame,  he stood with clenched  fists and
watering eyes in the billows of smoke.  And through his tears, he saw the  boy's
father, fighting oblivious from his car, his charioteer fallen between his legs,
that time  Tempus had  hacked off  an enemy's  arm to  save him  from the axe it
swung; he saw the witchbitch of a sorceress the king had wed in the black  hills
to make alliance with what could not  be had by force;  he saw the  aftermath of
that, when the  wild woman's spawn was out other and  every loyal general took a
hand in her  murder  before she laid their  commander out  in state.  He saw the
boy, wizard-haired and  wise, running to  Tempus's chariot for  a ride, grasping
his neck, laughing,  kissing  like the  northern boys had  no  shame to  do; all
this before the Great K-ing discharged his armies and retired home to peace, and
Tempus rode south to Ranke, an empire hardly whelped and shaky on its prodigious
feet. And Tempus saw the  field he had taken against a  monarch, once his liege:
Masters  change.  He had   not been  there  when  they had   got the Great King,
dragged him down  from his car  and  begun the Unending Deaths  that  proved the
Rankans barbarians second to none. It was said by those who were there  that  he
stood it well enough until his  son was castrated before his eyes, given  off to
a slaver with ready  collar ...  When he  had heard, Tempus had  gone  searching
among the sacked towns  of the north, where  Ranke wrought infamy into  example,
legends  better  than sharp  javelins  at discouraging  resistance.  And he  saw
Abarsis in  the slaver's  kennel, the  boy's look  of horror  that a  man of the
armies would see what had been done to him. No glimmer of joy invaded the  gaunt
child's face  turned up  to him.  No eager  hands outflung  to their redeemer; a
small, spent hero shuffled across soiled straw to meet him, slave's eyes gauging
without fear just what  he might expect from  this man, who had  once been among
his  father's  most valued,  but  was now  only  one more  Rankan  enemy. Tempus
remembered picking the child up in  his arms, hating how little he  weighed, how
sharp his bones were; and that moment when Abarsis at last believed he was safe.
About a boy's tears,  Abarsis had sworn Tempus  to secrecy. About the  rest, the
less said, the better. He had found him foster parents, in the rocky west by the
sea  temples  where Tempus  himself  was born,  and  where the  gods  still made
miracles upon occasion. He had hoped somehow the gods would heal what love could
not. Now, they had done it.

He nodded, having passed recollection like poison, watching the fire burn  down.
Then, for the sake of the soul  of Stepson, called Abarsis, and under the  aegis
of his flesh, Tempus  humbled himself  before Vashanka  and came again into  the
service of his god.


10

Hanse, hidden below on  a shelf, listening and  partaking of the funeral  of his
own fashion, upon realizing  what he was overhearing,  spurred the horse out  of
there as if the very god whose thunderous voice he had heard were after him.

He did not stop until he reached the Vulgar Unicorn. There he shot off the horse
in a dismount which was a fall  disguised as a vault, slapped the beast  smartly
away, telling it hissingly  to go home, and  slipped inside with such  relief as
his favourite knife must feel when he sheathed it.

'One-Thumb,' Hanse called out, making for the bar, 'what is going on out there?'
There had been soldierly commotion at the Common Gate.

'You haven't heard?' scoffed the night-tumed-day barman. 'Some prisoners escaped
from  the  palace  dungeon,  certain articles  were  thieved  from  the Hall  of
Judgement, and none of  the regular security officers  were around to get  their
scoldings.'


Looking  at the  mirror behind  the bar,  Hanse saw  the ugly  man grin  without
humour. Gaze locked to mirror-gaze, Hanse drew the hide-wrapped bundle from  his
tunic. 'These are for you. You are supposed to give them to your benefactor.' He
shrugged to the mirror.

One-Thumb turned and wiped  the dishrag along the  shining bar and when  the rag
was  gone, the  small bundle  was gone,  also. 'Now,  what do  you want  to  get
involved in something  like this for?  You think you're  moving up? You're  not.
Next time, when it's this sort of thing, come round the back. Or, better,  don't
come at all. I thought you had more sense.'

Hanse's hand smacked flat and loud upon the bar. 'I have taken enough offal  for
one day, cup-bearer.  Now I tell  you what you  do, Wide-Belly: You  take what I
brought you and your sage counsel, and you  wrap it all together,  and then  you
squat  on it!'   And stiff-kneed  as  a  roused cat,  Shadowspawn stalked  away,
towards the door,  saying over his   shoulder: 'As for sense, I thought  you had
more.'

'I have   my business  to think  of,' called   out One-Thumb,  too boldly  for a
whine. 'Ah, yes! So have I, so have I.'


11

Lavender and  lemon dawn  light bedizened  the white-washed  barracks' walls and
coloured the palace parade grounds.

Tempus had been working all night, out at Jubal's estate where he was quartering
his mercenaries away from town and Hell Hounds and Ilsig garrison personnel.  He
had fifty  there, but  twenty of  them were  paired members  of three  different
Sacred  Bands: Stepson's  legacy to  him. The  twenty had  convinced the  thirty
nonallied operatives that  'Stepsons' would be  a good name  for their squadron,
and for  the cohort  it would  eventually command  should things  go as everyone
hoped.

He would keep the Sacred Band  teams and spread the rest throughout  the regular
army, and throughout the prince's domain. They would find what clay they  chose,
and mould a division from it of which the spirit of Abarsis, if it were not  too
busy fighting theomachy's battles in heaven, could look upon with pride. The men
had done Tempus proud, already, that night at

Jubal's, and thereafter; and this evening when he had turned the comer round the
slave barracks the men were refitting for  livestock, there it had been, a  love
note written in lamb's blood two cubits high on the encircling protective  wall:
'War is all and king of all, and all things come into being out of strife.'

Albeit they had not  got it exactly right,  he had smiled, for  though the world
and the boyhood from out of which he had said such audacious things was gone  to
time. Stepson, called  Abarsis, and his   legacy of example  and followers  made
Tempus think  that  perhaos  (oh just  perhaps)  he,  Tempus, had  not  been  so
young,  or so foolish,  as he had  lately come to think that he  had been.   And
,  if thus  the man,  then  his  epoch, too, was freed of  memory's hindsightful
taint.

And the god and he were reconciled: This pushed away his curse and the shadow of
distress it cast  ever before him.  His troubles with  the prince had  subsided.
Zaibar  had come  through his  test of  fire and  returned to  stand his   duty,
thinking deeply, walking quietly. His courage would mend. Tempus knew his sort.

Jubal's disposition he had left to Kadakithis. He had wanted to take the  famous
ex-gladiator's measure in  single combat, but  there was no  fitness in it  now,
since the man would never be quick on his feet, should he live to regain the use
of them.

Not that  the world  was as  ridiculously beautiful  as was  the arrogant summer
morning which did not understand that  it was a Sanctuary morning and  therefore
should at least be gory, garish or full of flies buzzing about his head. No, one
could find  a few  thorns in  one's path,  still. There  was Shadowspawn, called
Hanse, exhibiting unseemly and proprietary grief over Abarsis whenever it served
him,  yet  not taking  a  billet among  the  Stepsons that  Tempus  had offered.
Privately, Tempus thought he  might yet come to  it, that he was  trying to step
twice into the same river. When his feet chilled enough, he would step out on to
the banks of manhood.  If he could sit  a horse better, perhaps  his pride would
let him join in where now, because of that, he could only sneer.

Hanse, too, must find his own  path. He was not Tempus's problem,  though Tempus
would gladly take on  that burden should Shadowspawn  ever indicate a desire  to
have help toting it.

His sister, Cime, however, was his problem, his alone, and the enormity of  that
conundrum had him casting about for any possible solution, taking pat answers up
and putting them down  like gods move seeds  from field to field.  He could kill
her, rape her,  deport her;  he  could  not ignore   her, forget her,  or suffer
along without confronting her.

That she and One-Thumb had become enamoured of one another was something he  had
not counted on. Such a thing had never occurred to him.

Tempus felt the god  rustling around in him,  the deep cavernous sensing  in his
most private  skull that  told him  the deity  was going  to speak. Silently! he
warned the god. They were uneasy with  each other, yet, like two lovers after  a
trial separation.

We  can take  her, mildly,  and then  she will  leave. You  cannot tolerate  her
presence. Drive her off. I will help thee, spake Vashanka.

'Must you be so predictable, Pillager?' Tempus mumbled under his breath, so that
Abarsis's Tros horse swivelled its ears back to eavesdrop. He slapped its  neck,
and  told it  to continue  on straight  and smartly.  They were  headed  towards
Lastel's modest eastside estate.

Constancy is one of My attributes, jibed the god in Tempus's head meaningfully.

'You are not getting her, 0 Ravening  One. You who are never satisfied, in  this
one thing, will not triumph. What would we have between us to keep it clear  who
is whom? I cannot allow it.'

You will, said Vashanka so loud in his head that he winced in his saddle and the
Tros horse broke  stride, looking reproachfully  about at him  to see what  that
shift of weight could possibly be construed to mean.

Tempus  stopped  the horse  in  the middle  of  the cool  shadowed  way on  that
beautiful morning and  sat stiffly a  long while, conducting  an internal battle
which had no resolution.

After a  time, he  swung the  horse back  in its  tracks, kicked  it into a lope
towards the barracks from which he  had just come. Let her stay  with One-Thumb,
if she would. She had come between him  and his god before. He was not ready  to
give her to the god, and he was not ready to give himself back into the hands of
his curse, rip asunder what had been so laboriously patched together and at such
great cost. He thought of Abarsis, and Kadakithis, and the refractory  upcountry
peoples, and he promised Vashanka any other woman the god should care to  choose
before sundown. Cime would keep, no doubt, right where she was. He  would see to
it that Lastel saw to her.

Abarsis's Tros horse snorted softly, as if in agreement, single-footing  through
Sanctuary's better streets  towards the barracks.  But the Tros  horse could not
have known  that by  this simple  decision its  rider had  attained to a greater
victory  than in  all the  wars of   all the  empires he  had ever  laboured  to
increase. Now the Tros horse whose  belly quivered between Tempus's knees as  it
issued a  blaring trumpet  to the  dusty air  did so  not because of its rider's
triumph over self and god, but out  of pure high spirits, as horses always  will
praise a fine day dawned.



THINGS THE EDITOR NEVER TOLD ME

by Lynn Abbey

I  had  just  administered the  coup  de  gr&ce to  my  latest  Thieves' (Vor/rf
offering- my third - when Bob asked if I'd like to have the last word in Shadows
of Sanctuary, It was an offer I couldn't refuse, though I'd no idea how I  would
put into words the experiences of  working on all three Thieves' World  volumes.
After many unsuccessful attempts at getting this essay down on paper, I began to
suspect that maybe Bob hadn't known the right words either. He was smiling  when
he made the offer, and he doesn't  usually give up a by-line that easily.  Sigh.
Another example of Things the Editor Never Told Me.

Actually, a lot of things the editor  didn't tell us were things he didn't  know
himself. We were all nai've about the mechanics of a franchised universe back at
Boskone  of  1978  when  the Thieves'  World  project  was  created. It  sounded
wondrously uncomplicated: we  would exchange character  sketches and refer  to a
common street map; Bob  would write us a  history; Andy Offutt would  create our
gods. We only had to go to ground and write our 5,000-10,000 words. Fat  chance.
Unexpected discovery number one: Sanctuary  isn't an imaginary anything; it's  a
state of mind recognized by the American Psychiatric Association.

We thought we'd  gone to ground  - it turned  out that we'd  gone overboard. Bob
hadn't told us  the things we'd  really need to  know, and none  of us wanted to
dictate to the guy who'd created this fun-house, so each of us made great use of
the little  vicissitudes of  life that  would add  'grit' and  'realism' to  our
stories. My  not-gypsy read  not-Tarot cards,  dealt with  necromancers, stole a
corpse and witnessed the usual street violence.

It didn't seem too bad  until I found the entire  book oozing out of my  mailbox
and read the volume in its  entirety. We had Crom-many drugs, magicians,  vices,
brothels,  dives,  haunts,  curses  and  feuds.  Sanctuary  wasn't  a provincial
backwater; it wasn't  even the  Imperial armpit;  it was  the Black  Hole of not
Calcutta. Things could only get worse ...

And they  did. Bob  told us  the second  volume would  be called  Tales from the
Vulgar Unicorn - the very name  incited depravity.  And we rose to  the occasion
or perhaps we fell. I explored the unpleasant pieces of my S'danzo's past.  gave
her a berserker for a half-brother  and created Buboe, the night bartender  down
at the Vulgar Unicorn. Well, Bob said  we were supposed to have a scene  down at
the ol' V.U. - but One-Thumb was  hors de combat in the bowels of  Sanctuary and
no one knew  who was running  the joint. (I  recall one of  my confreres created
someone called Two-Thumbs - I think that was from spite.) Buboe - a buboe  isn't
a person, a buboe  is the rather large  glandular eruption that accompanies  the
terminal stages of the Black Plague; opening it ensures death for the opener and
the openee.

Tales didn't ooze out of the mailbox; it ate right through the metal. I  haven't
seen all the stories for volume three yet, but I'm confident the downward spiral
has continued. Each set of stories  brings new oddments of human behaviour,  new
quirks of character that the authors  wouldn't dare put in a universe  for which
he or she was  solely responsible. In Sanctuary,  though, where guilt is  shared
along with the glory, one  volume's innuendo becomes the next  volume's complete
story.

And frankly, nastiness is interesting. If  I tell you that the smell  of rotting
blood can linger for years you might not notice what I don't tell you.  Consider
for a moment some of the things  none of the authors know for sure:  the weather
in Sanctuary - daily  and seasonal. It must  be strange. If the  Downwinders are
downwind of the town then the prevailing  wind is off the land - try  convincing
any coast-dweller of that.

As far as  the city itself  is concerned, I've  always imagined it  as a sort of
late medieval town, out-growing its walls. The Maze is built like  the  Shambles
in York,  England, where  each  storey  gets built  out over  the  lower  one so
everybody can drop their  slops  directly into the  street instead of  on  their
neighbour. There are those who  seem to think Sanctuary's like  Rome. (Nonsense,
Ranke is Rome - or is it that Rome is rank?) They imagine that the town has  the
rudiments of sewer systems, that  the villas are attractive, open  buildings and
that at least some of the  streets are paved. There also  seems to be a  Baghdad
by-the-Sea approach, with turban'd tribesmen and silk-clad ladies, as well as  a
few indications that we might be dealing with a Babylonian building style. Since
so many of our stories are set in the dark, I suppose it doesn't matter that  we
don't really agree on what the city looks like.

Of course,  nobody, including  the Empire,  knows how  big Sanctuary  really is.
Anytime one of us needs a secret meeting place we just create one - Sanctuary is
either very large or very cramped. You  can live your whole life in the  Maze or
the Bazaar, and yet it only takes  fifteen minutes to walk from one end  of town
to the other - or does it? I'm not sure.

Take the Bazaar, for  example. I've spent a  fair amount of time  in that bazaar
and I don't know exactly how it's put together. Part of it is a farmers'  market
(though I haven't the  faintest idea where the  farmers are when they  aren't at
the Bazaar).  Other parts  are like  the cloth-fairs  of medieval  France, where
merchants sell their wares wholesale.  Still other parts resemble the  permanent
bazaars  of  the Middle  East.  Rather than  trouble  myself with  philosophical
questions, like how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, someday I've got
to figure out how many S'danzo can live full-time in the Bazaar.

Moving from angels to gods for a  moment - it seems probable that anyone  living
in Sanctuary  would have  a personal  relationship to  the gods  - nothing  like
worship or faith, mind you. The people seem homeric in their religion: the  last
thing an ordinary citizen wants is dealing with the gods; worship is designed to
keep the deities  at bay. We  have at least  two major pantheons  represented in
the temples  and the  gods know   how many  priesthoods trying to control  them.
They  tell  me there's   a fellow  out  in  California who   has made a coherent
mythology  for  the  religions  of  Sanctuary.  He's  putting  his theology into
Chaosium's Thieves' World game,  but nobody's saying where they're  putting  the
intrepid mythmaster.

Then there's currency - or why we call it Thieves' World. Since no one knows how
the currency works, the townsfolk have  no choice but to steal from  each other.
We sort of agree that there are copper coins, silver coins and gold coins -  but
we don't know their names or their conversion rates. We say: a few copper coins;
or we get very specific and say: nine Rankan soldats -just in case someone  else
is writing about soldats that weren't minted in Ranke. But how many soldats make
a shaboozh - or does it work the other way around? It probably does.

Someday I'll create a money-lender for the town; making change in Sanctuary  has
got to be an art form. It won't do any good, though. Citizens and authors  alike
will find reasons not to visit  my money-lender. They'll set up their  own rates
of exchange. The Prince will  debase the currency. Vashanka will  start spitting
Indianhead nickels in his temple. I won't let that stop me. If the editor  won't
tell me how these things are to be done, I'll just have to start telling him.