anvil and brushed the water and dirt from its surface.
‘Someone has carved a symbol in it. It reminds me of one of your cards. Tell me
what it means before I take it back to the bazaar with us.’
She stood by his side. A smiling Face of Chaos had been freshly etched into the
worn surface of the metal.
‘It is an old S’danzo sign of good luck.’
Dubro did not seem to hear the note of bitterness and deceit in her voice. His
faith in Illyra had been tried but not shattered. The anvil was heavy, an
ungainly bundle in his arms. | ‘Well, it won’t get home by itself, will it?’
He stared at her as she started walking.
She touched the pedestal and thought briefly of the questions still whirling in
her head. Dubro called again from outside the courtyard. The entire length of
Sanctuary lay between them and the bazaar, and it was not yet midnight. Without
glancing back, she followed him out of the courtyard.
THE GATE OF THE FLYING KNIVES
by Poul Anderson
Again penniless, houseless, and ladyless, Cappen Varra made a brave sight just
the same as he wove his way amidst the bazaar throng. After all, until today he
had for some weeks been in, if not quite of, the household of Molin Torchholder,
as much as he could contrive. Besides the dear presence of ancilla Danlis, he
had received generous reward from the priest-engineer whenever he sang a song or
composed a poem. That situation had changed with suddenness and terror, but he
still wore a bright green tunic, scarlet cloak, canary hose, soft half-boots
trimmed in stiver, and plumed beret. Though naturally heartsick at what had