But he did not. He made it to the bay horse, and hung there against its warmth a while till he could get his breath backTake him, why don’t you?” he muttered to the hedge, the unnatural roses, the witch who had his soul in pawn. “You’ve taken everything else, Take him and be damned to you.”
If she heard him, in her sorcerous ways of being aware of everything near the wards, she gave no sign. The bay horse stood rock-steady for him to mount, and bore him away, where it chose:, he did not care whether it was a shelter or over the cliffs: let it choose. The White Foal, beyond the trees, was roiled and muddy, and looked friendlier than the town did.
Ischade sat down, at the table in the house that was somehow larger inside than outside, and which had more rooms and windows than appeared from outside. She sat in her cluttered living room, where the cloaks of former lovers, like torn moths’ wings, gave riotous color to the floor, the couch, the chairs, the bed, cloaks and bright cloth and here and there a trinket which a careless foot might tread upon and break … of no interest to her these days, these gray and deadly daysShe rested her elbows on the table and her face within her hands, and went into that nowhere place which she had learned to find within herself, as the Stepson Niko had had it, that inner landscape which in her case was a maze of many doors, each one with a key and a lock.
The hallway was safe. It had turnings and there were dark places, and there were doors that rattled ominously and clamored with lost voices, doors which weakened if she thought of the thing behind themSo she did not.
But somewhere, somewhere down the hall, there was a door still open. She knew that there was. She sensed it. And it was in that darkness far down the hall, where she did not willingly go. She might go up to that door and try to slip up on it and slam it quickly and lock it. But she was paralyzed with dread of it, that what was inside would remain tranquil for years if she did not attempt it. There would be time. There would be time to gather strength-
There was a room within which was treasure. A blue fragment spun within that room, power, secret power, filched from the ruin of magic in Sanctuary. She had hid it within herself, in that place where no other mage could go without killing her, and she, by the very curse that created her, could not die.
There was that place far away in the dark, where something waitedalmost she could see it, red-eyed and smiling at her within that room at the end of the hall.
And there were the doors behind which she had shut away everyone who trusted her. She held those keys. She kept them in the room with the fragment of the Globe of Power.
It was her virtue, her sole virtue, that she listened to their rattling and their clamor at her sanity, when everything in her ached to let them out, to have them with her, vulnerable to that thing that waited down there, in the dark.
Especially Straton-
You healed the damn horse, couldn’t you help me? She hurt inside.
Heal him-yes. And prove to him by that, that she had not forsaken him, that there was hope for him and her. And after that, after that-
She saw him lying still as all her other lovers, by morning light. It was the very fact that he loved her, that would damn him. He could not, now, take his healing as a kindness. No, to him, it would be an absolution. It would bring him to her as he had been-but more insistent, more himself, more violent and more desperate to prove his manhood after what he had suffered-
-and that was the very thing that would kill him. That was the nature of her curse.
The thing in the dark snickered filthily. I knew. It was amused by her helplessness, when she was one who held what it wanted.
Go to Randal, she thought. Seek help in the Mageguild.
But that would precipitate things for which she was not yet ready. She knew that she was not ready and would not be ready perhaps for years. She was far too unbalanced now. The tides of need and satiation which ruled her with the changing moon-were running too high, too violent. She prowled the Maze and the Downwind and sometimes the high streets near the palace, and dead happened, happened with more frequency than made her feel safe with anything she valued.
She needed, that was the unpalatable truth, needed sex the way Strat needed drink, to deal with the dark and the pain. And she wanted him-so damnably much.
The thing-was there again. Stilcho saw it, the red eyes glowing in the murk, the smile like a smug face lit from inside, leaking red light at nostrils and mouth and blazing behind the eyes like hell itself.
It grinned, and the terror of that waked him with a yell that was still dying in his ears as he sat up, sweat-drenched and ashamed and expecting Moria’s arms to hold him, Moria’s voice to bid him hush, hush, and rest, Moria’s lips to kiss him and whisper that he was safe.
“Shut up!” came the yell from somewhere else in the building. “Shut it up, dammit!”
He propped himself against the wall, blinked and shivered in the draft against his bare skin, still krrf-fogged and searching dazedly for Moria.
Not there.
She must have gone out to market.
But they were out of money. Flat broke, except- •
Except-
“Ogods.”
He scrambled out of bed. He went to the corner and looked amid the junk and the clutter.
Not there. The gold was gone- So was Moria.
And he knew where.
Gorthis’s shop was still shuttered at this hour, but he was stirring about inside by now, Moria knew his habits. The shop was on the lower floor of his apartment, in the building that he owned, and Gorthis, being more than prudent, never left his jewelry downstairs in the shop at night. He packed everything up and brought it upstairs, where a pair of vicious dogs guarded the upstairs halls.
In spite of the fact that no thief in Sanctuary tended to prey on a fence, whose good will was important as sunrise-such precautions were necessary because there was always the disgruntled customer.
Or the rival.
Moria seized the bellpull, of the doorbell in the shape of a smiling Shipri-better, she thought in the hysterical humor that came of having gotten this far unmolested with her cargo, that it should be Shalpa, god of thieves. The bell chimed inside, and she waited, her laundry basket on the doorstep, herself within the shelter of the alcove, out of the rain.
The little peephole opened. She stood on tiptoe, and back a little.
And suddenly remembered-0 fool!-that she no longer was darkhaired Moria the thief, Mona the Ilsigi.
It was a beautiful stranger stood on Gorthis’s step, her blonde curls wrapped in rags, but her brows still pale, her eyes blue, and her complexion whiter and fairer than any Ilsigi’s could be.
“Gorthis,” she said, “let me in.”
The peephole stayed opened a damned long while longer than its onceupon-a-time wont. She sensed the consternation on the other side of the door-
“Who? What do you want?”
“Gorthis, it’s Moria. Moria. You remember me. I bribed this mage-”
It was not the truth, but it was close enough to the truth, and simple enough to explain through a peephole.
The peephole shut. The door opened, on a fat, huge man who looked more apt to be a blacksmith than a goldsmith. Not a hair on his head except a tuft above either ear that stuck out like some brindled monkey’s ruff. He utterly filled the door. His eyes, Ilsigi-dark, were wide and worried.
“Moria?”
“Makeup,” she said, clutching her laundry basket, which had gotten heavier and heavier from block to block. “Corn’ on. Gorthis, f’gawds’sake-it’s me. Moria. Mor-am’s sister.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then backed out of the doorway and held it open for her and her basket, admitting her to the dim interior of counters and barred doors and barred sections: a goldsmith even in this section of town and in these days, had to worry, and Gorthis believed in defense. He always had.
“Shalpa’s ass,” Moria breathed, setting down the basket and looking open-mouthed at the maze of bars, “whole Rankan army couldn’t make its way through here.”
“Whole Rankan army ner Piffles ner any other damn pack of looters, girl, ain’t nobody going to break into my place! I been respectable, I been respectable ever since the Troubles started. I ain’t doing no more, so you can take yourself and whatever you got there-“