they must change.’
Lythande laughed. ‘Perhaps there is no way, child. Maybe it will take two
sacrifices to consecrate the temple Molin Torch-holder builds. You had best hope
there is a way through Manila’s fate; A cold breeze accompanied his laughter.
The candles flickered a moment, and the magician was gone. Illyra stared at the
undisturbed rope.
Let Lythande and the others help her if it’s so important. I want only the
anvil, and that I can have regardless of her fate.
The cold air clung to the room. Already her imagination was embroidering upon
the consequences of enraging any of the powerful deities of Sanctuary. She left
to search for Dubro in the fog-shrouded bazaar.
Fog tendrils obscured the familiar stalls and shacks of the daytime bazaar. A
few fires could be glimpsed through cracked doorways, but the area itself had
gone to sleep early, leaving Illyra to roam through the moist night alone.
Nearing the main entrance she saw the bobbing torch of a running man. The torch
and runner fell with an aborted shout. She heard lighter footsteps running off
into the unlit fog. Cautiously, fearfully, Illyra crept towards the fallen man.
It was not Dubro, but a shorter man wearing a blue hawk-mask. A dagger protruded
from the side of his neck. Illyra felt no sorrow at the death of one of Jubal’s
bully-boys, only relief that it had not been Dubro. Jubal was worse than the
Rankans. Perhaps the crimes of the man behind the mask had finally caught up
with him. More likely someone had risked venting a grudge against the seldom