Thieves World 2 – Tales From The Vulgar Unicorn by Asprin, Robert

THIEVES WORLD #2

TALES FROM THE VULGAR UNICORN

Edited by Robert Lynn Asprin

CONTENTS

EIDTOR’S NOTE

INTRODUCTION

EDITOR’S NOTE

The perceptive reader may notice small inconsistencies in the characters

appearing in these stories. Their speech patterns, their accounts of certain

events, and their observations on the town’s pecking order vary from time to

time.

These are not inconsistencies!

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

mind.

First, each story is told from a different viewpoint, and different people see

and hear things differently. Even readily observable facts are influenced by

individual perceptions and opinions. Thus, a minstrel narrating a conversation

with a magician would give a different account than would a thief witnessing the

same exchange.

Second, the citizens of Sanctuary are by necessity more than a little paranoid.

They tend to either omit or slightly alter information in conversation. This is

done more reflexively than out of premeditation, as it is essential for survival

in this community.

Finally, Sanctuary is a fiercely competitive environment. One does not gain

employment by admitting to being ‘the second-best swordsman in town’. In

addition to exaggerating one’s own status, it is commonplace to downgrade or

ignore one’s closest competitors. As a result, the pecking order of Sanctuary

will vary depending on who you talk to … or more importantly, who you believe.

INTRODUCTION

Moving his head with minute care to avoid notice, Hakiem the Storyteller studied

the room over the untouched rim of his wine cup. This was, of course, done

through slitted eyes. It would not do to have anyone suspect he was not truly

asleep. What he saw only confirmed his growing feelings of disgust.

The Vulgar Unicorn was definitely going downhill. A drunk was snoring on the

floor against the wall, passed out in a puddle of his own vomit, while several

beggars made their way from table to table, interrupting the undertoned

negotiations and hagglings of the tavern’s normal clientele.

Though his features never moved, Hakiem grimaced inside. Such goings on were

never tolerated when One-Thumb was around. The bartender/owner of the Vulgar

Unicorn had always been quick to evict such riffraff as fast as they appeared.

While the tavern had always been shunned by the more law-abiding citizens of

Sanctuary, one of the main reasons it was favoured by the rougher element was

that here a man could partake of a drink or perhaps a little larcenous

conversation uninterrupted. This tradition was rapidly coming to an end.

The fact that he would not be allowed to linger for hours over a cup of the

tavern’s cheapest wine if One-Thumb were here never entered Hakiem’s mind. He

had a skill. He was a storyteller, a tale-spinner, a weaver of dreams and

nightmares. As such, he considered himself on a measurably better plane than the

derelicts who had taken to frequenting the place.

One-Thumb had been missing for a long time now, longer than any of his previous

mysterious disappearances. Fear of his return kept the tavern open and the

employees honest, but the place was degenerating in his absence. The only way it

could sink any lower would be if a Hell Hound took to drinking here.

Despite his guise of slumber, Hakiem found himself smiling at that thought. A

Hell Hound in the Vulgar Unicorn! Unlikely at best. Sanctuary still chafed at

the occupying force from the Rankan Empire, and the five Hell Hounds were hated

second only to the military governor. Prince Kadakithis, whom they guarded.

Though it was a close choice between Prince Kitty-Cat with his naive lawmaking

and the elite soldiers who enforced his words, the citizens of Sanctuary

generally felt the military governor’s quest to clean up the worse hellhole in

the Empire was stupid, while the Hell Hounds were simply devilishly efficient.

In a town where one was forced to live by wit as often as skill, efficiency

could be grudgingly admired, while stupidity, particularly stupidity with power,

could only be despised.

No, the Hell Hounds weren’t stupid. Tough, excellent swordsmen and seasoned

veterans, they seldom set foot in the Maze, and never entered the Vulgar

Unicorn. On the west side of town, it was said that one only came here if he was

seeking death … or selling it. While the statement was somewhat exaggerated,

it was true that most of the people who frequented the Maze either had nothing

to lose or were willing to risk everything for what they might gain there. As

rational men, the Hell Hounds were unlikely to put in an appearance at the

Maze’s most notorious tavern.

Still, the point remained that the Vulgar Unicorn sorely needed One-Thumb’s

presence and that his return was long overdue. In part, that was why Hakiem was

spending so much time here of late: hope of acquiring the story of One-Thumb’s

return and possibly the story of his absence. That alone Would be enough to keep

the storyteller haunting the tavern, but the stories he gained during his wait

were a prize in themselves. Hakiem was a compulsive collector of stories, from

habit as well as by profession, and many stories had their beginnings, middles,

or ends within these walls. He collected them all, though he knew that most of

them could not be repeated, for he knew the value of a story is in its merit,

not in its saleability.

SPIDERS OF THE PURPLE MAGE

by Philip Jose Farmer

1

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

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

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

Masha zil-Ineel was one of the very few people in the city who didn’t take part

in the rat hunt. She just couldn’t believe that any rat, no matter how big, and

there were some huge ones in Sanctuary, could swallow a jewel so large.

But when a rumour spread that someone had seen a cat eat a dead rat and that the

cat had acted strangely afterwards, she thought it wise to pretend to chase

cats. If she hadn’t, people might wonder why not. They might think that she knew

something they didn’t. And then she might be the one run down.

Unlike the animals, however, she’d be tortured until she told where the jewel

was.

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

But everybody knew that she’d been told about the jewel by Benna nus-Katarz.

Thanks to Masha’s blabbermouth drunken husband, Eevroen.

Three weeks ago, on a dark night, Masha had returned late from midwifing in the

rich merchants’ Eastern quarter. It was well past midnight, but she wasn’t sure

of the hour because of the cloud-covered sky. The second wife of Shoozh the

spice-importer had borne her fourth infant. Masha had attended to the delivery

personally while Doctor Nadeesh had sat in the next room, the door only half

closed, and listened to her reports. Nadeesh was forbidden to see any part of a

female client except for those normally exposed and especially forbidden to see

the breasts and genitals. If there was any trouble with the birthing, Masha

would inform him, and he would give her instructions.

This angered Masha, since the doctors collected half of the fee, yet were seldom

of any use. In fact, they were usually a hindrance.

Still, half a fee was better than none. What if the wives and concubines of the

wealthy were as nonchalant and hardy as the poor women, who just squatted down

wherever they happened to be when the pangs started and gave birth unassisted?

Masha could not have supported herself, her two daughters, her invalid mother,

or her lazy alcoholic husband. The money she made from doing the more affluent

women’s hair and from her tooth-pulling and manufacture of false teeth in the

marketplace wasn’t enough. But midwifery added the income that kept her and her

family just outside hunger’s door.

She would have liked to pick up more money by cutting men’s hair in the

marketplace, but both law and ancient custom forbade that.

Shortly after she had burned the umbilical cord of the new-born to ensure that

demons didn’t steal it and had ritualistically washed her hands, she left

Shoozh’s house. His guards, knowing her, let her through the gate without

challenge, and the guards of the gate to the eastern quarters also allowed her

to pass. Not however without offers from a few to share their beds with her that

night.

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

Masha was glad that her hood and the daricness prevented the guards from seeing

her burning face by the torchlight. However, if they could have seen that she

was blushing with shame, they might have been embarrassed. They would know then

that they weren’t dealing with a brazen slut of the Maze but with a woman who

had known better days and a higher position in society than she now held. The

blush alone would have told them that.

What they didn’t know and what she couldn’t forget was that she had once lived

in this walled area and her father had been an affluent, if not wealthy,

merchant.

She passed on silently. It would have made her feel good to have told them her

past and then ripped them with the invective she’d learned in the Maze. But to

do that would lower her estimate • of herself.

Though she had her own torch and the means for lighting it in the cylindrical

leather case on her back, she did not use them. It was better to walk unlit and

hence unseen into the streets. Though many of the lurkers in the shadows would

let her pass unmolested, since they had known her when she was a child, others

would not be so kind. They would rob her for the tools of her trade and the

clothes she wore and some would rape her. Or try to.

Through the darkness she went swiftly, her steps sure because of long

experience. The adobe buildings of the city were a dim whitish bulk ahead. Then

the path took a turn, and she saw some small flickers of light here and there.

Torches. A little further, and a light became a square. The window of a tavern.

She entered a narrow winding street and strode down its centre. Turning a

corner, she saw a torch in a bracket on the wall of a house and two men standing

near it. Immediately she crossed to the far side and, hugging the walls, passed

the two. Their pipes glowed redly; she caught a whiff of the pungent and sickly

smoke of kleelel, the drug used by the poor when they didn’t have money for the

more expensive krrf. Which was most of the time.

After two or three pipefuls, the smokers would be vomiting. But they would claim

that the euphoria would make the upchucking worth it.

There were other odours: garbage piled by the walls, slop-jars of excrement, and

puke from kleetel smokers and drunks. The garbage would be shovelled into goat

drawn carts by Downwinders whose families had long held this right. The slop

jars would be emptied by a Downwinder family that had delivered the contents to

farmers for a century and would and had fought fiercely to keep this right. The

farmers would use the excrement to feed their soil; the urine would be emptied

into the mouth of the White Foal River and carried out to sea.

She also heard the rustling and squealing of rats as they searched for edible

portions and dogs growling or snarling as they chased the rats or fought each

other. And she glimpsed the swift shadows of running cats.

Like a cat, she sped down the street in a half-run, stopping at corners to look

around them before venturing farther. When she was about a half-mile from her

place, she heard the pounding of feet ahead. She froze and tried to make herself

look like part of the wall.

2

At that moment the moon broke through the clouds.

It was almost a full moon. The light revealed her to any but a blind person. She

darted across the street to the dark side and played wall again.

The slap of feet on the hard-packed dirt of the street came closer. Somewhere

above her, a baby began crying.

She pulled a long knife from a scabbard under her cloak and held the blade

behind her. Doubtless, the one running was a thief or else someone trying to

outrun a thief or mugger or muggers or perhaps a throat-slitter. If it was a

thief who was getting away from the site of the crime, she would be safe. He’d

be in no position to stop to see what he could get from her. If he was being

pursued, the pursuers might shift their attention to her.

If they saw her.

Suddenly, the pound of feet became louder. Around the corner came a tall youth

dressed in a ragged tunic and breeches and shod with buskins. He stopped and

clutched the corner and looked behind him. His breath rasped like a rusty gate

swung back and forth by gusts of wind.

Somebody was after him. Should she wait here? He hadn’t seen her, and perhaps

whoever was chasing him would be so intent he or they wouldn’t detect her

either.

The youth turned h’is face, and she gasped. His face was so swollen that she

almost didn’t recognize him. But he was Benna nus-Katarz, who had come here from

Ilsig two years ago. No one knew why he’d immigrated, and no one, in keeping

with the unwritten code of Sanctuary, had asked him why.

Even in the moonlight and across the street, she could see the swellings and

dark spots, looking like bruises, on his face. And on his hands. The fingers

were rotting bananas.

He turned back to peer around the corner. His breathing became less heavy. Now

she could hear the faint slap of feet down the street. His chasers would be here

soon.

Benna gave a soft ululation of despair. He staggered down the street towards a

mound of garbage and stopped before it. A rat scuttled out but stopped a few

feet from him and chittered at him. Bold beasts, the rats of Sanctuary.

Now Masha could hear the loudness of approaching runners and words that sounded

like sheets being ripped apart.

Benna moaned. He reached under his tunic with clumsy fingers and drew something

out. Masha couldn’t see what it was, though she strained. She inched with her

back to the wall towards a doorway. Its darkness would make her even more

undetectible.

Benna looked at the thing in his hand. He said something which sounded to Masha

like a curse. She couldn’t be sure; he spoke in the Ilsig dialect.

The baby above had ceased crying; its mother must have given it the nipple or

perhaps she’d made it drink water tinctured with a drug.

Now Benna was pulling something else from inside his tunic. Whatever it was, he

moulded it around the other thing, and now he had cast it in front of the rat.

The big grey beast ran away as the object arced towards him. A moment later, it

approached the little ball, sniffing. Then it darted forwards, still smelling

it, touched it with its nose, perhaps tasted it, and was gone with it in its

mouth.

Masha watched it squeeze into a crack in the old adobe building at the next

corner. No one lived there. It had been crumbling, falling down for years,

unrepaired and avoided even by the most desperate of transients and bums. It was

said that the ghost of old Lahboo the Tight-Fisted haunted the place since his

murder, and no one cared to test the truth of the stories told about the

building.

Benna, still breathing somewhat heavily, trotted after the rat. Masha, hearing

that the footsteps were louder, went alongside the wall, still in the shadows.

She was curious about what Benna had got rid of, but she didn’t want to be

associated with him in any way when his hunters caught up with him.

At the corner, the youth stopped and looked around him. He didn’t seem able to

make up his mind which route to take. He stood, swaying, and then fell to his

knees. He groaned, and pitched forwards, softening his fall with outstretched

arms.

Masha meant to leave him to his fate. It was the only sensible thing to do. But

as she rounded the corner, she heard him moaning. And then she thought she heard

him say something about a jewel.

She stopped. Was that what he had put in something, perhaps a bit of cheese, and

thrown to the rat? It would be worth more money than she’d earn in a lifetime,

and if she could, somehow, get her hands on it … Her thoughts raced as swiftly

as her heart, and now she was breathing heavily. A jewel! A jewel? It would mean

release from this terrible place, a good home for her mother and her children.

And for herself.

And it might mean release from Eevroen.

But there was also a terrible danger very close. She couldn’t hear the sounds of

the pursuers now, but that didn’t mean they’d left the neighbourhood. They were

prowling around, looking into each doorway. Or perhaps one had looked around the

corner and seen Benna. He had motioned to the others, and they were just behind

the corner, getting ready to make a sudden rush.

She could visualize the knives in their hands.

If she took a chance and lost, she’d die, and her mother and daughters would be

without support. They’d have to beg; Eevroen certainly would be of no help. And

Handoo and Kheem, three and five years old, would grow up, if they didn’t die

first, to be child whores. It was almost inevitable.

While she stood undecided, knowing that she had only a few seconds to act and

perhaps not that, the clouds slid below the moon again. That made the difference

in what she’d do. She ran across the street towards Benna. He was still lying in

the dirt of the street, his head only a few inches from some stinking dog turds.

She scabbarded her dagger, got down on her knees, and rolled him over. He gasped

with terror when he felt her hands upon him.

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

get you away!’

Sweat poured into her eyes as she looked towards the far comer. She could see

nothing, but if the hunters wore black, they wouldn’t be visible at this

distance.

Benna moaned and then said, ‘I’m dying, Masha.’

Masha gritted her teeth. She had hoped that he’d not recognize her voice, not at

least until she’d got him to safety. Now, if the hunters found him alive and got

her name from him, they’d come after her. They’d think she had the jewel or

whatever it was they wanted.

‘Here. Get up,’ she said, and struggled to help him. She was small, about five

feet tall and weighing eighty-two pounds. But she had the muscles of a cat, and

fear was pumping strength into her. She managed to get Benna to his feet.

Staggering under his weight, she supported him towards the open doorway of the

building on the corner.

Benna reeked of something strange, an odour of rotting meat but unlike any she’d

ever smelled. It rode over the stale sweat and urine of his body and clothes.

‘No use,’ Benna mumbled through greatly swollen lips. ‘I’m dying. The pain is

terrible, Masha.’

‘Keep going!’ she said fiercely. ‘We’re almost there!’

Benna raised his head. His eyes were surrounded with puffed-out flesh. Masha had

never seen such oedema; the blackness and the swelling looked like those of a

corpse five days dead in the heat of summer.

‘No!’ he mumbled. ‘Not old Lahboo’s building!’

3

Under other circumstances, Masha would have laughed. Here was a dying man or a

man who thought he was dying. And he’d be dead soon if his pursuers caught up

with him. (Me, too, she thought.) Yet he was afraid to take the only refuge

available because of a ghost.

‘You look bad enough to. scare even the Tight-Fisted One,’ she said. ‘Keep going

or I’ll drop you right now!’

She got him inside the doorway, though it wasn’t easy what with the boards still

attached to the lower half of the entrance. The top planks had fallen inside. It

was a tribute to the fear people felt for this place that no one had stolen the

wood, an expensive item in the desert town.

Just after they’d climbed over, Benna almost falling, she heard a man utter

something in the raspy tearing language. He was near by, but he must have just

arrived. Otherwise, he would have heard the two.

Masha had thought she’d reached the limits of terror, but she found that she

hadn’t. The speaker was a Raggah!

Though she couldn’t understand the speech – no one in Sanctuary could – she’d

heard Raggah a number of times. Every thirty days or so five or six of the

cloaked, robed, hooded, and veiled desert men came to the bazaar and the

farmers’ market. They could speak only their own language, but they used signs

and a plentitude of coins to obtain what they wanted. Then they departed on

their horses, their mules loaded down with food, wine, vuksibah (the very

expensive malt whisky imported from a far north land), goods of various kinds:

clothing, bowls, braziers, ropes, camel and horse hides. Their camels bore huge

panniers full of feed for chickens, ducks, camels, horses, and hogs. They also

purchased steel tools: shovels, picks, drills, hammers, wedges.

They were tall, and though they were very dark, most had blue or green eyes.

These looked cold and hard and piercing, and few looked directly into them. It

was said that they had the gift, or the curse, of the evil eye.

They were enough, in this dark night, to have made Masha marble with terror. But

what was worse, and this galvanized the marble, they were the servants of the

purple mage! Masha guessed at once what had happened. Benna had had the guts

and the complete stupidity – to sneak into the underground maze of the mage on

the river isle of Shugthee and to steal a jewel. It was amazing that he’d had

the courage, astounding that he could get undetected into the caves, an absolute

wonder that he’d penetrated the treasurehold, and fantastic that he’d managed to

get out. What weird tales he could tell if he survived! Masha could think of no

similar event, no analogue, to the adventures he must have had.

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

At that moment Benna’s knees gave, and it was all she could do to hold him up.

Somehow, she got him to the door to the next room and into a closet. If the

Raggah came in, they would look here, of course, but she could get him no

further.

Benna’s odour was even more sickening in the hot confines of the closet, though

its door was almost completely open. She eased him down. He mumbled, ‘Spiders

… spiders.’

She put her mouth close to his ear. ‘Don’t talk loudly, Benna. The Raggah are

close by. Benna, what did you say about the spiders?’

‘Bites … bites,’ he murmured. ‘Hurt… the … the emerald … rich…!’

‘How’d you get in?’ she said. She put her hand close to his mouth to clamp down

on it if he should start to talk loudly.

“Wha…? Camel’s eye … bu…’

He stiffened, the heels of his feet striking the bottom of the closet door.

Masha pressed her hand down on his mouth. She was afraid that he might cry out

in his death agony. If this were it. And it was. He groaned, and then relaxed.

Masha took her hand away. A long sigh came from his open mouth.

She looked around the edge of the closet. Though it was dark outside, it was

brighter than the darkness in the house. She should be able to make out anyone

standing in the doorway. The noise the heels made could have attracted the

hunters. She saw no one, though it was possible that someone had already come in

and was against a wall. Listening for more noise.

She felt Benna’s pulse. He was dead or so close to it that it didn’t matter any

more. She rose and slowly pulled her dagger from the scabbard. Then she stepped

out, crouching, sure that the thudding of her heart could be heard in this still

room.

So unexpectedly and suddenly that a soft cry was forced from her, a whistle

sounded outside. Feet pounded in the room – there was someone here! – and the

dim rectangle of the doorway showed a bulk plunging through it. But it was going

out, not in. The Raggah had heard the whistle of the garrison soldiers – half

the city must have heard it – and he was leaving with his fellows.

She turned and bent down and searched under Benna’s tunic and in his loincloth.

She found nothing except slowly cooling lumpy flesh. Within ten seconds, she was

out on the street. Down a block was the advancing light of torches, their

holders not yet visible. In the din of shouts and whistles, she fled hoping that

she wouldn’t run into any laggard Raggah or another body of soldiers.

Later, she found out that she’d been saved because the soldiers were looking for

a prisoner who’d escaped from the dungeon. His name was Badniss, but that’s

another tale.

4

Masha’s two-room apartment was on the third floor of a large adobe building

which, with two others, occupied an entire block. She entered it on the side of

the Street of the Dry Well, but first she had to wake up old Shmurt, the

caretaker, by beating on the thick oaken door. Grumbling at the late hour, he

unshot the bolt and let her in. She gave him a padpool, a tiny copper coin, for

his trouble and to shut him up. He handed her her oil lamp, she lit it, and she

went up the three flights of stone steps.

She had to wake up her mother to get in. Wallu, blinking and yawning in the

light of an oil lamp in the corner, shot the bolt. Masha entered and at once

extinguished her lamp. Oil cost money, and there had been many nights when she

had had to do without it.

Wallu, a tall skinny sagging-breasted woman of fifty, with gaunt deeply-lined

features, kissed her daughter on the cheek. Her breath was sour with sleep and

goat’s cheese. But Masha appreciated the peck; her life had few expressions of

love in it. And yet she was full of it; she was a bottle close to bursting with

pressure.

The light on the rickety table in the corner showed a blank-walled room without

rugs. In a far corner the two infants slept on a pile of tattered but clean

blankets. Beside them was a small chamberpot of baked clay painted with the

black and scarlet rings-within-rings of the Darmek guild. .

In another corner was her false-teeth making equipment, wax, moulds, tiny

chisels, saws, and expensive wire, hardwood, iron, a block of ivory. She had

only recently repaid the money she’d borrowed to purchase these. In the opposite

corner was another pile of cloth, Wallu’s bed, and beside it another thundermug

with the same design. An ancient and wobbly spinning-wheel was near it; Wallu

made some money with it, though not much. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis,

one eye had a cataract, and the other was beginning to lose its sight for some

unknown reason.

Along the adobe wall was a brass charcoal brazier and above it a wooden vent. A

bin held charcoal. A big cabinet beside it held grain and some dried meat and

plates and knives. Near it was a baked clay vase for water. Next to it was a

pile of cloths. Wallu pointed at the curtain in the doorway to the other room.

‘He came home early. I suppose he couldn’t cadge drinks enough from his friends.

But he’s drunk enough to suit a dozen sailors.’ Grimacing, Masha strode to the

curtain and pulled it aside. ”Shewaw!’ (A combination of’Whew!’, ‘Ugh!’, and

‘Yech!’) The stink was that which greeted her nostrils when she opened the door

to the Vulgar Unicorn Tavern. A blend of wine and beer, stale and fresh, sweat,

stale and fresh, vomit, urine, frying blood-sausages, krrf, and kleetel.

Eevroen lay on his back, his mouth open, his arms spread out as if he were being

crucified. Once, he had been a tall muscular youth, very broad-shouldered, slim

waisted, and long-legged. Now he was fat, fat, fat, double-chinned, huge

paunched with rings of sagging fat around his waist. The once bright eyes were

red and dark-bagged, and the once-sweet breath was a hellpit of stenches. He’d

fallen asleep without changing into nightclothes; his tunic was ripped, dirty,

and stained with various things, including puke. He wore cast-off sandals, or

perhaps he’d stolen them.

Masha was long past weeping over him. She kicked him in the ribs, causing him to

grunt and to open one eye. But it closed and he was quickly snoring like a pig

again. That, at least, was a blessing. How many nights had she spent in

screaming at him while he bellowed at her or in fighting him off when he

staggered home and insisted she lie with him? She didn’t want to count them.

Masha would have got rid of him long ago if she had been able to. But the law of

the empire was that only the man could divorce unless the woman could prove her

spouse was too diseased to have children or was impotent.

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

stopped her.

Wallu, peering at her with one half-good eye, said, ‘Child! Something has

happened to you! What was it?’

‘Tell you in a moment,’ Masha said, and she washed her face and hands and

armpits. Later, she regretted very much that she hadn’t told Wallu a lie. But

how was she to know that Eevroen had come out of his stupor enough to hear what

she said? If only she hadn’t been so furious that she’d kicked him … but

regrets were a waste of time, though there wasn’t a human alive who didn’t

indulge in them.

She had no sooner finished telling her mother what had happened with Benna when

she heard a grunt behind her. She turned to see Eevroen swaying in front of the

curtains, a stupid grin on his fat face. The face once so beloved.

Eevroen reeled towards her, his hands out as if he intended to grab her. He

spoke thickly but intelligibly enough.

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

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

‘Nothin do wi’ me?’ Eevroen bellowed. ‘Wha’ you mean? I’m your husband! Wha’ss

yoursh ish mine. I wan’ tha’ jewel!’

‘You damned fool,’ Masha said, trying to keep from screaming so that the

children wouldn’t wake and the neighbours wouldn’t hear, ‘I don’t have the

jewel. There was no way I could get it – if there ever was any.’

Eevroen put a finger alongside his nose and winked the left eye. ‘If there wa’

ever any, heh? Masha, you tryna hoi’ ou’ on me? You go’ the jewel, and you lyin’

to you’ mo … mo … mama.’

‘No, I’m not lying!’ she screamed, all reason for caution having deserted her

quite unreasonably. ‘You fat stinking pig! I’ve had a terrible time, I almost

got killed, and all you can think about is the jewel! Which probably doesn’t

exist! Benna was dying! He didn’t know what he was talking about! I never saw

the jewel! And…’

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

She could easily have evaded him, but something swelled up in her and took over,

and she seized a baked-clay water jug from a shelf and brought it down hard over

his head. The jug didn’t break, but Eevroen did. He fell face forwards. Blood

welled from his scalp; he snored.

By then the children were awake, sitting up, wide-eyed, but silent. Maze

children learned at an early age not to cry easily.

Shaking, Masha got down on her knees and examined the wound. Then she rose and

went to the rag rack and returned with some dirty ones,/ no use wasting clean

ones on him, and stanched the wound. She felt his pulse; it was beating steadily

enough for a drunkard who’d just been knocked out with a severe blow.

Wallu said, ‘Is he dead?’

She wasn’t concerned about him. She was worrying about herself, the children,

and Masha. If her daughter should be executed for killing her husband, however

justified she was, then she and the girls would be without support.

‘He’ll have a hell of a headache in the morning,’ Masha said. With some

difficulty, she rolled Eevroen over so that he would be face down, and she

turned his head sideways and then put some rags under the side of his head. Now,

if he should vomit during the night, he wouldn’t choke to death. For a moment

she was tempted to put him back as he had fallen. But the judge might think that

she was responsible for his death.

‘Let him lie there,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to break my back dragging him to

our bed. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to sleep, he snores so loudly and he stinks

so badly.’

She should have been frightened of what he’d do in the morning. But, strangely,

she felt exuberant. She’d done what she’d wanted to do for several years now,

and the deed had discharged much of her anger – for the time being, anyway.

She went to her room and tossed and turned for a while, thinking of how much

better life would be if she could get rid of Eevroen.

Her last thoughts were of what life could be if she’d got the jewel that Benna

had thrown to the rat.

5

She awoke an hour or so past dawn, a very late time for her, and smelled bread

baking. After she’d sat on the chamberpot, she rose and pushed the curtain

aside. She was curious about the lack of noise in the next room. Eevroen was

gone. So were the children. Wallu, hearing the little bells on the curtain,

turned.

‘I sent the children out to play,’ she said. ‘Eevroen woke up about dawn. He

pretended he didn’t know what had happened, but I could tell that he did. He

groaned now and then – his head I suppose. He ate some breakfast, and then he

got out fast.’

Wallu smiled. ‘I think he’s afraid of you.’

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

She sat down while Wallu, hobbling around, served her a half loaf of bread, a

hunk of goat cheese, and an orange. Masha wondered if her husband also

remembered what she’d said to her mother about Benna and the jewel.

He had.

When she went to the bazaar, carrying the folding chair in which she put her

dental patients, she was immediately surrounded by hundreds of men and women.

All wanted to know about the jewel.

Masha thought, ‘The damn fool!’

Eevroen, it seemed, had procured free drinks with his tale. He’d staggered

around everywhere, the taverns, the bazaar, the farmers’ market, the waterfront,

and he’d spread the news. Apparently, he didn’t say anything about Masha’s

knocking him out. That tale would have earned him only derision, and he still

had enough manhood left not to reveal that.

At first, Masha was going to deny the story. But it seemed to her that most

people would think she was lying, and they would be sure that she had kept the

jewel. Her life would be miserable from then on. Or ended. There were plenty who

wouldn’t hesitate to drag her off to some secluded place and torture her until

she told where the jewel was.

So she described exactly what had happened, omitting how she had tried to brain

Eevroen. There was no sense in pushing him too hard. If he was humiliated

publicly, he might get desperate enough to try to beat her up.

She got only one patient that day. As fast as those who’d heard her tale ran off

to look for rats, others took their place. And then, inevitably, the governor’s

soldiers came. She was surprised they hadn’t appeared sooner. Surely one of

their informants had sped to the palace as soon as he had heard her story, and

that would have been shortly after she’d come to the bazaar.

The sergeant of the soldiers questioned her first, and then she was marched to

the garrison, where a captain interrogated her. Afterwards, a colonel came in,

and she had to repeat her tale. And then, after sitting in a room for at least

two hours, she was taken to the governor himself. The handsome youth,

surprisingly, didn’t detain her long. He seemed to have checked out her

movements, starting with Doctor Nadeesh. He’d worked out a timetable between the

moment she left Shoozh’s house and the moment she came home. So, her mother had

also been questioned.

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

‘Well, Masha,’ the governor said. ‘You’ve stirred up a rat’s nest,’ and he

smiled at his own joke while the soldiers and courtiers laughed.

‘There is no evidence that there was any jewel,’ he said, ‘aside from the story

this Benna told, and he was dying from venom and in great pain. My doctor has

examined his body, and he assures me that the swellings were spider bites. Of

course, he doesn’t know everything. He’s been wrong before.

‘ But people are going to believe that there was indeed a jewel of great value,

and nothing anyone says, including myself, will convince them otherwise.

‘However, all their frantic activity will result in one great benefit. . We’ll

be rid of the rats for a while.’

He paused, frowning, then said, ‘It would seem, however, that this fellow Benna

might have been foolish enough to steal something from the purple mage. I would

think that that is the only reason he’d be pursued by the Raggah. But then there

might be another reason. In any event, if there is a jewel, then the finder is

going to be in great peril. The mage isn’t going to let whoever finds it keep

it.

‘Or at least I believe so. Actually, I know very little about the mage, and from

what I’ve heard about him, I have no desire to meet him.’

Masha thought of asking him why he didn’t send his soldiers out to the isle and

summon the mage. But she kept silent. The reason was obvious. No one, not even

the governor, wanted to provoke the wrath of a mage. And as long as the mage did

nothing to force the governor into action, he would be left strictly alone to

conduct his business – whatever that was.

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

shaboozh to Masha.

‘That should more than take care of any business you’ve lost by being here,’ the

governor said.

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

homewards.

The following week was the great cat hunt. It was also featured, for Masha

anyway, by a break-in into her apartment. While she was off helping deliver a

baby at the home of the merchant Ahloo shik-Mhanukhee, three masked men knocked

old Shmurt the doorkeeper out and broke down the door to her rooms. While the

girls and her mother cowered in a corner, the three ransacked the place, even

emptying the chamberpots on the floor to determine that nothing was hidden

there. They didn’t find what they were looking for, and one of the frustrated

interlopers knocked out two ofWallu’s teeth in a rage. Masha was thankful,

however, that they did not beat or rape the little girls. That may have been not

so much because of their mercifulness as that the doorkeeper regained

consciousness sooner than they had expected. He began yelling for help, and the

three thugs ran away before the neighbours could gather or the soldiers come.

Eevroen continued to come in drunk late at night. But he spoke very little, just

using the place to eat and sleep. He seldom saw Masha when she was awake. In

fact, he seemed to be doing his best to avoid her. That was fine with her.

6

Several times, both by day and night, Masha felt someone was following her. She

did her best to detect the shadower, but whether she got the feeling by day or

night, she failed to do it. She decided that her nervous state was responsible.

Then the great dog hunt began. Masha thought this was the apex of hysteria and

silliness. But it worried her. After all the poor dogs were gone, what would

next be run down and killed and gutted? To be more precise, who? She hoped that

the who wouldn’t be she.

In the middle of the week of the dog hunt, little Kheem became sick. Masha had

to go to work, but when she came home after sundown, she found that Kheem was

suffering from a high fever. According to her mother, Kheem had also had

convulsions. Alarmed, Masha set out at once for Doctor Nadeesh’s house in the

Eastern quarter. He admitted her and listened to her describe Kheem’s symptoms.

But he refused to accompany her to her house.

‘It’s too dangerous to go into the Maze at night,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t go

there in the day unless I had several bodyguards. Besides, I am having company

tonight. You should have brought the child here.’

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

Nadeesh was adamant, but he did give her some powders which she could use to

cool the child’s fever.

She thanked him audibly and cursed him silently. On the way back, while only a

block from her apartment, she heard a sudden thud of footsteps behind her. She

jumped to one side and whirled, drawing her dagger at the same time. There was

no moon, and the nearest light was from oil lamps shining through some iron

barred windows in the second storey above her.

By its faintness she saw a dark bulk. It was robed and hooded, a man by its

tallness. Then she heard a low hoarse curse and knew it was a man. He had

thought to grab or strike her from behind, but Masha’s unexpected leap had saved

her. Momentarily, at least. Now the man rushed her, and she glimpsed something

long and dark in his uplifted hand. A club.

Instead of standing there frozen with fear or trying to run away, she crouched

low and charged him. That took him by surprise. Before he could recover, he was

struck in the throat with her blade.

Still, his body knocked her down, and he fell hard upon her. For a moment, the

breath was knocked out of her. She was helpless, and when another bulk loomed

above her, she knew that she had no chance.

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

exposed head.

Writhing, pinned down by the corpse, Masha could do nothing but await the blow.

She thought briefly of little Kheem, and then she saw the man drop the club. And

he was down on his knees, still gripping whatever it was that had closed off his

breath.

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

The man standing over the second attacker was short and broad and also robed and

hooded. He put something in his pocket, probably the cord he’d used to strangle,

her attacker, and he approached her cautiously. His hands seemed to be empty,

however.

‘Masha?’ he said softly.

By then she’d recovered her wind. She wriggled out from under the dead man,

jerked the dagger from the windpipe, and started to get up.

The man said, in a foreign accent, ‘You can put your knife away, my dear. I

didn’t save you just to kill you.’

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

Despite the warning, he took two steps towards her. Then she knew who he was. No

one else in Sanctuary stank so of rancid butter.

‘Smhee,’ she said, equally softly.

He chuckled. ‘I know you can’t see my face. So, though it’s against my religious

convictions, I will have to take a bath and quit smearing my body and hair with

butter. I am as silent as a shadow, but what good is that talent when anyone can

smell me a block away?’

Keeping her eyes on him, she stopped and cleaned her dagger on the dead man’s

robe.

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

He hissed with surprise, then said, ‘You saw me?’

‘No. But I knew someone was dogging me.’

‘Ah! You have a sixth sense. Or a guilty conscience. Come! Let’s get away before

someone comes along.’

‘I’d like to know who these men are … were.’

‘They’re Raggah,’ Smhee said. ‘There are two others fifty yards from here,

lookouts, I suppose. They’ll be coming soon to find out why these two haven’t

shown up with you.’

That shocked her even more than the attack.

‘You mean the purple mage wants we? Why?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps he thinks as so many others do. That is, that Benna told

you more than you have said he did. But come! Quickly!’

‘Where?’

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

They walked swiftly towards her building. Smhee kept looking back, but the place

where they had killed the two men was no longer visible. When they got to the

door, however, she stopped.

‘If I knock on the door for the keeper, the Raggah might hear it,’ she

whispered. ‘But I have to get in. My daughter is very sick. She needs the

medicine I got from Dr Nadeesh.’

‘So that’s why you were at his home,’ Smhee said. ‘Very well. You bang on the

door. I’ll be the rearguard.’

He was suddenly gone, moving astonishingly swift and silently for such a fat

man. But his aroma lingered.

She did as he’suggested, and presently Shmurt came grumbling to the door and

unbolted it. Just as she stepped in she smelled the butter more strongly, and

Smhee was inside and pushing the door shut before the startled doorkeeper could

protest.

‘He’s all right,’ Masha said.

Old Shmurt peered with runny eyes at Smhee by the light of his oil lamp. Even

with good vision, however, Shmurt couldn’t see Smhee’s face. It was covered with

a green mask.

Shmurt looked disgusted.

‘I know your husband isn’t much,’ he croaked. ‘But taking up with this

foreigner, this tub of rotten butter … shewawl’

‘It’s not what you think,’ she said indignantly.

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

‘Is Eevroen home?’ Masha said.

Shmurt snorted and said, ‘At this early hour? No, you and your stinking lover

will be safe.’

‘Dammit!’ Masha said. ‘He’s here on business!’

‘Some business!’

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

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

Adulteress!’

Masha shrugged, lit her lamp, and went up the steps with Smhee close behind her.

Wallu looked very surprised when the fat man came in with her daughter.

‘Who is this?’

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

He removed his mask.

‘She doesn’t get out much,’ Masha said. She hurried to Kheem, who lay sleeping

on her rag pile. Smhee took off his cloak, revealing thin arms and legs and a

body like a ball of cheese. His shirt and vest, made of some velvety material

speckled with glittering sequins, clung tightly to his trunk. A broad leather

belt encircled his paunch, and attached to it were two scabbards containing

knives, a third from which poked the end of a bamboo pipe, and a leather bag

about the size of Masha’s head. Over one shoulder and the side of his neck was

coiled a thin rope.

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

Masha wondered what the trade was, but she didn’t have time for him. She felt

Kheem’s forehead and pulse,’then went to the water pitcher on the ledge in the

corner.

After mixing the powder with the water as Nadeesh had instructed and pouring out

some into a large spoon, she turned. Smhee was on his knees by the child and

reaching into the bag on his belt.

‘I have some talent for doctoring,’ he said as she came to his side. ‘Here. Put

that quack’s medicine away and use this.’

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

‘Yes, I know you don’t want to take a chance with a stranger. But please believe

me. This green powder is a thousand times better than that placebo Nadeesh gave

you. If it doesn’t cure the child, I’ll cut my throat. I promise you.’

‘Much good that’d do the baby,’ Wallu said.

‘Is it a magical potion?’ Masha said.

‘No. Magic might relieve the symptoms, but the disease would still be there, and

when the magic wore off, the sickness would return. Here. Take it! I don’t want

you two to say a word about it, ever, but I was once trained in the art of

medicine. And where I come from, a doctor is twenty times superior to any you’ll

find in Sanctuary.’

Masha studied his dark shiny face. He looked as if he might be about forty years

old. The high broad forehead, the long straight nose, the well-shaped mouth

would have made him handsome if his cheeks weren’t so thick and his jowls so

baggy. Despite his fatness, he looked intelligent; the black eyes below the

thick bushy eyebrows were keen and lively.

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

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

voice.

‘You can’t afford not to,’ he said. ‘If you don’t use this, your child will die.

And the longer you hesitate, the closer she gets to death. Every second counts.’

Masha took the envelope and returned to the water pitcher. She set the spoon

down without spilling its contents and began working as Smhee called out to her

his instructions. He stayed with K-heem, one hand on her forehead, the other on

her chest. Kheem breathed rapidly and shallowly.

Wallu protested. Masha told her to shut up more harshly than she’d intended.

Wallu bit her lip and glared at Smhee.

K-heem was propped up by Smhee, and Masha got her to swallow the greenish water.

Ten minutes or so later, the fever began to go down. An hour later, according to

the sandglass, she was given another spoonful. By dawn, she seemed to be rid of

it, and she was sleeping peacefully.

7

Meantime, Masha and Smhee talked in low tones. Wallu had gone to bed, but not to

sleep, shortly before sunrise. Eevroen had not appeared. Probably he was

sleeping off his liquor in an empty crate on the wharf or in some doorway. Masha

was glad. She had been prepared to break another basin over his head if he made

a fuss and disturbed Kheem.

Though she had seen the fat little man a number of times, she did not know much

about him. Nobody else did either. It was certain that he had first appeared in

Sanctuary six weeks (sixty days) ago. A merchant ship of the Banmalts people had

brought him, but this indicated little about his origin since the ship ported at

many lands and islands. ^

Smhee had quickly taken a room on the second floor of a building, the first of

which was occupied by the K-habeeber or ‘Diving Bird’ Tavern. (The proprietor

had jocularly named it thus because he claimed that his customers dived as

deeply into alcohol for surcease as the khabeeber did into the ocean for fish.)

He did no work nor was he known to thieve or mug. He seemed to have enough money

for his purposes, whatever they were, but then he lived frugally. Because he

smeared his body and hair with rancid butter, he was called ‘The Stinking

Butterball’ or ‘Old Rotten’, though not to his face. He spent time in all the

taverns and also was often seen in the farmers’ market and the bazaar. As far as

was known, he had shown no sexual interest in men or women or children. Or, as

one wag put it, ‘not even in goats’.

His religion was unknown though it was rumoured that he kept an idol in a small

wooden case in his room.

Now, sitting on the floor by Kheem, making the child drink water every half

hour, Masha questioned Smhee. And he in turn questioned her.

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

‘I’ve also investigated other women.’

‘You didn’t say why.’

‘One answer at a time. I have something to do here, and I need a woman to help

me. She has to be quick and strong and very brave and intelligent. And

desperate.’

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

indeed.

‘I know your history,’ he said. ‘You came from a fairly well-to-do family, and

as a child you lived in the Eastern quarter. You were not born and bred in the

Maze, and you want to get out of it. You’ve worked hard, but you just are not

going to succeed in your ambition. Not unless something unusual comes your way

and you have the courage to seize it, no matter what the consequences might be.’

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

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

‘Yes.’

He paused.

‘And the purple mage.’

Masha sucked in a deep breath. Her heart thudded far more swiftly than her

fatigue could account for. A coldness spread from her toes to the top of her

head, a not unpleasant coldness.

‘I’ve watched in the shadows near your building,’ he said. ‘Many a night. And

two nights ago I saw the Raggah steal into other shadows and watch the same

window. Fortunately, you did not go out during that time to midwife. But

tonight…’

‘Why would the Raggah be interested in me?’

He smiled slowly.

‘You’re smart enough to guess why. The mage thinks you know more than you let on

about the jewel. Or perhaps he thinks Benna told you more than you’ve repeated.’

He paused again, then said, ‘Did he?’

‘Why should I tell you if he did?’

‘You owe me for your life. If that isn’t enough to make you confide in me,

consider this. I have a plan whereby you can not only be free of the Maze, you

can be richer than any merchant, perhaps richer than the governor himself. You

will even be able to leave Sanctuary, to go to the capital city itself. Or

anywhere in the world.’

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

She said, ‘Why do you need a woman? Why not another man?’ Smhee was silent for a

long time. Evidently, he was wondering just how much he should tell her.

Suddenly, he smiled, and something invisible, an unseen weight seemed to fall

from him. Somehow, he even looked thinner.

‘I’ve gone this far,’ he said. ‘So I must go all the way. No backing out now.

The reason I must have a woman is that the mage’s sorcery has a weakness. His

magical defences will be set up to repel men. He will not have prepared them

against women. It would not occur to him that a woman would try to steal his

treasure. Or … kill him.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I don’t think it would be wise to tell you that now. You must take my word for

it. I do know far more about the purple mage than anyone else in Sanctuary.’

‘You might, and that still wouldn’t be much,’ she said. ‘Let me put it another

way. I do know much about him. More than enough to make me a great danger to

him.’

‘Does he know much about you?’

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

They talked until dawn, and by then Masha was deeply committed. If she failed,

then her fate would be horrible. And the lives of her daughters and her mother

would become even worse. Far worse. But if she continued as she had, she would

be dooming them anyway. She might die of a fever or be killed, and then they

would have no supporter and defender.

Anyway as Smhee pointed out, though he didn’t need to, the mage was after her.

Her only defence was a quick offence. She had no other choice except to wait

like a dumb sheep and be slaughtered. Except that, in this situation, the sheep

would be tortured before being killed.

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

8

When the wolfs tail, the false dawn, came, she rose stiffly and went through to

her room and looked out the window. Not surprisingly, the corpses of the Raggah

were gone.

Shortly thereafter, Kheem awoke, bright-eyed, and asked for food. Masha covered

her with kisses, and, weeping joyfully, prepared breakfast. Smhee left. He would

be back before noon. But he gave her five shaboozh and some lesser coin. Masha

wakened her mother, gave her the money, and told her that she would be gone for

a few days. Wallu wanted to question her, but Masha told her sternly that she

would be better off if she knew no more than she did now.

‘If Eevroen wants to know where I am, tell him that I have been called to

help deliver a rich farmer’s baby. If he asks for the man’s name, tell him

it is Shkeedur sha-Mizl. He lives far out and only comes into town twice a year

except on special business. It doesn’t matter that it’s a lie. By the time I get

back it’ll be soon – we’ll be leaving at once. Have everything we’ll need for a

long journey packed into that bag. Just clothes and eating utensils and the

medicine. If Kheem has a relapse, give her Smhee’s powders.’

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

‘Hide the money. No! Leave one shaboozh where Eevroen will find it when he looks

for money. Conceal the rest where he can’t find it. He’ll take the shaboozh and

go out to drink, and you won’t be bothered with him or his questions.’

When the flaming brass bowl of the noon sun had reached its apex, Smhee came.

His eyes looked very red, but he didn’t act fatigued. He carried a carpet bag

from which he produced two dark cloaks, two robes, and the masks which the

priests of Shalpa wore in public.

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

‘A neighbour is keeping the children until mother gets back from shopping,’ she

said. ‘Eevroen still hasn’t shown up.’.

‘Nor will he for a long time,’ Smhee said. ‘I dropped a coin as I passed him

staggering this way. He snatched it, of course, and ran off to a tavern.

‘The Sailfish will be leaving port in three days. I’ve arranged for passage on

her and also to be hidden aboard her if her departure is delayed. I’ve been very

busy all morning.’

‘Including taking a bath,’ she said.

‘You don’t smell too good yourself,’ he said. ‘But you can bathe when we get to

the river. Put these on.’

She went into her room, removed her clothes, and donned the priest’s garb. When

she came out, Smhee was fully dressed. The bag attached to his belt bulged

beneath his cloak.

‘Give me your old clothes,’ he said. ‘We’ll cache them outside the city, though

I don’t think we’ll be needing them.’

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

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

She didn’t follow him to the door. He turned and said, ‘What’s the matter? Your

liver getting cold?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Only … mother’s very short-sighted. I’m afraid she’ll be

cheated when she buys the food.’

He laughed and said something in a foreign tongue.

‘For the sake of Igil! When we return, we’ll have enough to buy out the farmers’

market a thousand times over!’

‘If we get back…’ she murmured. She wanted to go to Looza’s room and kiss the

children goodbye. But that was not wise. Besides, she might lose her

determination if she saw them now.

They walked out while old Shmurt stared. He was the weakest point in their

alibi, but they hoped they wouldn’t need any. At the moment, he was too

dumbfounded at seeing them to say anything. And he would be afraid to go to the

soldiers about this. He probably was thinking that two priests had magically

entered the house, and it would be indiscreet to interfere in their business.

Thirty minutes later, they mounted the two horses which Smhee had arranged to be

tied to a tree outside city limits.

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

‘There are two stout fellows hidden in the grass near the river,’ he said. He

waved towards it, and she saw two men come from it. They waved back and started

to walk back to the city.

There was a rough road along the White Foal River, sometimes coming near the

stream, sometimes bending far away. They rode over it for three hours, and then

Smhee said, ‘There’s an old adobe building a quarter-mile inland. We’ll sleep

there for a while. I don’t know about you, but I’m weary.’

She was glad to rest. After hobbling the horses near a stand of the tall brown

desert grass, they lay down in the midst of the ruins. Smhee went to sleep at

once. She worried about her family for a while, and suddenly she was being

shaken by Smhee. Dawn was coming up.

They ate some dried meat and bread and fruit and then mounted again. After

watering the horses and themselves at the river, they rode at a canter for three

more hours. And then Smhee pulled up on the reins. He pointed at the trees a

quarter-mile inland. Beyond, rearing high, were the towering cliffs on the other

side of the river. The trees on this side, however, prevented them from seeing

the White Foal.

‘The boat’s hidden in there,’ he said. ‘Unless someone’s stolen it. That’s not

likely, though. Very few people have the courage to go near the Isle of

Shugthee.’ . .

‘What about the hunters who bring down the furs from the north?’

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

They crossed the rocky ground, passing some low-growing purplish bushes and some

irontrees with grotesquely twisted branches. A rabbit with long ears dashed by

them, causing her horse to rear up. She controlled it, though she had not been

on a horse since she was eleven. Smhee said that he was glad that it hadn’t been

his beast. All he knew about riding was the few lessons he’d taken from a farmer

after coming to Sanctuary. He’d be happy if he never had to get on another one.

The trees were perhaps fifteen or twenty deep from the river’s’ edge. They

dismounted, removed the saddles, and hobbled the beasts again. Then they walked

through the tall cane-like plants, brushing away the flies and other pestiferous

insects, until they got to the stream itself. Here grew stands of high reeds,

and on a hummock of spongy earth was Smhee’s boat. It was a dugout which could

hold only two.

‘Stole it,’ Smhee said without offering any details.

She looked through the reeds down the river. About a quarter of a mile away, the

river broadened to become a lake about two and a half miles .across. In its

centre was the Isle of Shugthee, a purplish mass of rock. From this distance,

she could not make out its details.

Seeing it, she felt coldness ripple over her.

‘I’d like to take a whole day and a night to scout it,’ he said. ‘So you could

become familiar with it, too. But we don’t have time. However, I can tell you

everything I know. I wish I knew more.’

She doffed her clothes and bathed in the river while Smhee unhobbled the horses

and took them some distance up to let them drink. When she came back, she found

him just returning with them.

‘Before dusk comes, we’ll have to move them down to a point opposite the isle,’

he said. ‘And we’ll saddle them, too.’

They left the horses to go to a big boulder outside the trees but distant from

the road. At its base was a hollow large enough for them to lie down in. Here

they slept, waking now and then to talk softly or to eat a bite or to go behind

the’rock and urinate. The insects weren’t so numerous here as in the trees, but

they were bad enough.-

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

When they walked the horses down the road, Smhee said, ‘You’ve been very good

about not asking questions, but I can see you’re about to explode with

curiosity. You have no idea who the purple mage really is. Not unless you know

more than the other Sanctuarians.’

‘All I know,’ she said, ‘is that they say that the mage came here about ten

years ago. He came with some hired servants, and many boxes, some small, some

large. No one knew what his native land was, and he didn’t stay long in town.

One day he disappeared with the servants and the boxes. It was some time before

people found out that he’d moved into the caves of the Isle of Shugthee. Nobody

had ever gone there because it was said that it was haunted by the ghosts of the

Shugthee. They were a little hairy people who inhabited this land long before

the first city of the ancients was built here.’

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

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

‘He is,’ Smhee said, looking grim.

‘Anyway, he sent his servants in now and then to buy cattle, goats, pigs,

chickens, horses, vegetables, and animal feed and fruit. These were men and

women from some distant land. Not from his, though. And then one day they ceased

coming in. Instead, the Raggah came. From that day on, no one has seen the

servants who came with the mage.’

‘He probably got rid of them,’ Smhee said. ‘He may have found some reason to

distrust them. Or no reason at all.’

‘The fur trappers and hunters who’ve gone by the isle say they’ve seen some

strange things. Hairy beast-faced dwarfs. Giant spiders.’ She shuddered.

‘Benna died of spider bites,’ Smhee said. The fat little man reached into his

belt-bag and brought out a metal jar. He said, ‘Before we leave in the boat

tonight we’ll rub the ointment in this on us. It will repel some of the spiders

but not, unfortunately, all.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I know.’

They walked silently for a while. Then he sighed, and said, ‘We’ll get bitten.

That is certain. Only … all the spiders that will bite us – I hope so, anyway

– won’t be real spiders. They’ll be products of the mage’s magic. Apparitions.

But apparitions that can kill you just as quickly or as slowly and usually as

painfully as the real spiders.’

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

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

on his arm.

‘But … but…!’

‘Yes, I know. If the spiders were not real, then why should they harm him? That

is because he thought they were real. His mind did the rest to him.’

She didn’t like that she couldn’t keep her voice from shaking, but she couldn’t

help it.

‘How can you tell which is real and which magical?’

‘In the daylight the unreal spiders look a little transparent. By that I mean

that if they stand still, you can see dimly through them. But then they don’t

stand still much. And we’ll be in the dark of night. So…

‘Look here, Masha. You have to be strong stuff to go there. You have to overcome

your fear. A person who lets fear conquer him or her is going to die even if he

knows that the spider is unreal. He’ll make the sting of the bite himself and

the effects of the venom. And he’ll kill himself. I’ve seen it happen in my

native land.’

‘ But you say that we might get bitten by a real spider. How can I tell which is

which in the dark?’

‘It’s a problem.’

He added after a few seconds, ‘The ointment should repulse most of the real

spiders. Maybe, if we’re lucky. You see, we have an advantage that Benna didn’t

have. I know what faces us because I come from the mage’s land. His true name is

Kemren, and he brought with him the real spiders and some other equally

dangerous creatures. They would have been in some of the boxes. I am prepared

for them, and so will you be. Benna wasn’t, and any of these Sanctuary thieves

will get the same fate.’

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

before answering. ••

‘You may as well know it all. Kemren was a priest of the goddess Weda Krizhtawn

of the island of Sharranpip. That is far east and south of here, though you may

have heard of it. We are a people of the water, of lakes, rivers, and the sea.

Weda Krizhtawn is the chief goddess of water, and she has a mighty temple with

many treasures near the sea.

‘Kemren was one of the higher priests, and he served her well for years. In

return, he was admitted into the inner circle of mages and taught both black and

white magic. Though, actually, there is little difference between the two

branches, the main distinction being whether the magician uses his powers for

good or evil.

‘And it isn’t always easy to tell what is good and what is evil. If a mage makes

a mistake, and his use turns out to be for evil, even if he sincerely thought it

was for good, then there is a … backlash. And the mage’s character becomes

changed for the worse in proportion to the amount of magical energy used.’

He stopped walking.

‘We’re opposite the isle now.’

It wasn’t visible from the road. The plain sloped upwards from the road,

becoming a high ridge near the river. The tall spreading blackish hukharran bush

grew on top of it. They walked the horses up the ridge, where they hobbled them

near a pool of rainwater. The beasts began cropping the long brownish grass that

grew among the bushes.

The isle was in the centre of the lake and seemed to be composed mostly of a

purplish rock. It sloped gently from the shore until near the middle, where a

series of peculiar formations formed a spine. The highest prominence was a

monolith perforated near its top as if a tunnel had been carved through it.

‘The camel’s eye Benna spoke of,’ Smhee said. ‘Over there is the formation known

as the ape’s head, and at the other end is that which the natives call the

dragon’s tail.’

On the edge of the isle grew some trees, and in the waters by it were the

ubiquitous tall reeds.

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

‘But I floated down past it at night several times,’ he said, ‘and I could hear

the lowing of some cattle and the braying of a donkey. Also, I heard a weird

call, but I don’t know if it was from a bird or an animal. And I heard a

peculiar grunting sound, but it wasn’t from pigs.’

‘That camel’s eye looks like a good place for a sentry,’ she said. ‘I got the

impression from Benna that that is where he entered the caves. It must’ve been a

very dangerous climb, especially during the dark.’

‘Benna was a good man,’ Smhee said. ‘But he wasn’t prepared enough. There are

eyes watching now. Probably through holes in the rocks. From what I heard, the

mage had his servants buy a number of excavating tools. He would have used them

to enlarge the caves and to make tunnels to connect the caves.’ She took a final

look in the sunlight at the sinister purple mass and turned away.

9

Night had come. The winds had died down. The sky was cloudy, but the covering

was thin. The full moon glowed through some of these, and now and then broke

through. The nightbirds made crazy startling sounds. The mosquitoes hummed

around them in dense masses, and if it hadn’t been for Smhee’s ointment would

have driven them out of the trees within a few minutes. Frogs croaked in vast

chorus; things plopped into the water.

They shoved the boat out to the edge of the reeds and climbed in. They wore

their cloaks now but would take them off when they got to the isle. Masha’s

weapons were a dagger and a short thin sword used for thrusting only.

They paddled silently as possible, the current helping their rate of speed, and

presently the isle loomed darkly to their right. They landed halfway down the

eastern shore and dragged the dugout slowly to the nearest tree.

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

shoulder and neck.

The isle was quiet. Not a sound. Then came a strange grunting cry followed by a

half-moaning, half-squalling sound. Her neck iced.

‘Whatever that is,’ Smhee said, ‘it’s no spider.’

He chuckled as if he were making a joke.

They’d decided – what else could they do? – that the camel’s eye would be too

heavily guarded after Benna’s entrance through it. But there had to be more

accessible places to get in. These would be guarded, too, especially since they

must have been made more security-conscious by the young thief.

‘What I’d like to find is a secret exit,’ Smhee said. ‘Kemren must have one,

perhaps more. He knows that there might come a time when he’ll be sorely in need

of it. He’s a crafty bastard.’

Before they’d taken the boat, Smhee had revealed that Kemren had fled Sharranpip

with many of the temple’s treasures. He had also taken along spiders’ eggs and

some of the temple’s animal guardians.

‘If he was a high priest,’ Masha had said, ‘why would he do that? Didn’t he have

power and wealth enough?’

‘You don’t understand our religion,’ the fat thief had said. ‘The priests are

surrounded by treasures that would pop your eyes out of their sockets if you saw

them. But the priests themselves are bound by vows to extreme poverty, to

chastity, to a harsh bare life. Their reward is the satisfaction of serving Weda

Krizhtawn and her people. It wasn’t enough for Kemren. He must have become evil

while performing some magic that went wrong. He is the first priest ever to

commit such a blasphemy.

‘And I, a minor priest, was selected to track him down and to make him pay for

his crime. I’ve been looking for him for thirteen years. During that time, to

effect the vengeance of Weda Krizhtawn, I have had to break some of my own vows

and to commit crimes which I must pay for when I return to my land.’

‘Won’t she pardon you for these because you have done them in her name?’ Masha

had said.

‘No. She accepts no excuses. She will thank me for completing my mission, but I

must still pay. Look at me. When I left Sharranpip, I was as skinny as you. I

led a very exemplary life. I ate little, I slept in the cold and rain, I begged

for my food, I prayed much. But during the years of my crimes and the crimes of

my years, I have eaten too well so that Kemren, hearing of the fat fellow, would

not recognize me. I have been reeling drunk, I have gambled – a terrible sin – I

have fought with fists and blade, I have taken human lives, I…’

He looked as if he were going to weep.

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

‘I should have, I should have!’ he cried. ‘But, apart from lying with women,

that is the one thing I could not bring myself to do, though it was the first I

should have done! And I’ll pay for that when I get home, even though that is the

hardest thing for a priest to do! Even Kemren, I have heard, though he no longer

worships Weda Krizhtawn, still butters himself!

‘And the only reason I quit doing that is that I’m sure that he’s conditioned

his real spiders, and his guardian animals, to attack anyone who’s covered with

butter. That way he can make sure or thinks he can make sure, that no hunter of

him will ever be able to get close. That is why, though it almost killed me with

shame and guilt, I bathed this morning!’

Masha would have laughed if she hadn’t felt so sorry for him. That was why his

eyes had looked so red when he’d shown up at her apartment after bathing. It

hadn’t been fatigue but tears that had done it.

They drew their weapons, Masha a short sword and Smhee a long dagger. They set

out for the base of the ridge of formations that ran down the centre of the isle

like serrations on a dragon’s back. Before they’d gone far, Smhee put a

restraining hand on her arm.

‘There’s a spider’s web just ahead. Between those two bushes. Be careful of it.

But look out for other dangers, since one will be obvious enough to distract

your attention from others. And don’t forget that the thorns of these bushes are

probably poisonous.’

In the dim moonlight she saw the web. It was huge, as wide as the stretch of her

arms. She thought, if it’s so big, what about its spinner?

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

turned to watch it.

Then something big scuttled out from under the bush at her. She stifled her

scream and leaped towards the thing instead of following her desire to run away

from it. Her” sword leaped out as the thing sprang, and it spitted itself.

Something soft touched the back of her hand. The end of a waving leg.

Smhee came up behind it as she stood there holding the sword out as far as she

could to keep the arachnid away. Her arm got heavy with its weight, and slowly

the blade sank towards the ground. The fat man slashed the thing’s back open

with his dagger. A foul odour vented from it. He brought his foot down on a leg

and whispered, ‘Pull your sword out! I’ll keep it pinned!’

She did so and then backed away. She was breathing very hard. He jumped up and

came down with both feet on the creature.

Its legs waved for a while longer, but it was dying if not already dead. ‘That

was a real spider,’ he said, ‘although I suppose you know that. I suspect that

the false spiders will be much smaller.’

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

throat.

‘Because making them requires energy, and it’s more effective to make a lot of

little spiders and costs less energy than to make a few big ones. There are

other reasons which I won’t explain just now.’

‘Look out!’ she cried, far louder than she should have. But it had been so

sudden and had taken her off guard.

Smhee whirled and slashed out, though he hadn’t seen the thing. It bounded over

the web, its limbs spread out against the dimness, its great round ears

profiled. It came down growling, and it fell upon Smhee’s blade. This was no

man’s-head sized spider but a thing as big as a large dog and furry and stinking

of something -monkey? – and much more vital than the arachnid. It bore Smhee

backwards with his weight; he fell on the earth.

Snarling, it tried to bury its fangs in Smhee’s throat. Masha broke from her

paralysis and thrust with a fury and strength that only fear could provide. The

blade went through its body. She leaped back, drawing it out, and then lunged

again. This time the point entered its neck.

Smhee, gasping, rolled it off him and stood up. He said, ‘By Wishvu’s whiskers!

I’ve got blood all over me. A fine mess! Now the others will smell me!’

‘What is it?’ Masha said shakily.

‘A temple guardian ape. Actually, it’s not an ape but a very large tailless

monkey. Kemren must have brought some cubs with him.’

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

The open mouth showed teeth like a leopard’s.

‘They eat meat,’ he said. ‘Unlike other monkeys, however, they’re not

gregarious. Our word for them, translated, would be the solitary ape.’ Masha

wondered if one of Smhee’s duties had been teaching. Even under these

circumstances, he had to be pedantic.

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

After dragging the two carcasses into the river, they proceeded cautiously.

Smhee looked mostly ahead; Masha, behind. Both looked to both sides of them.

They came to the base of the ridges of rock. Smhee said, ‘The animal pens are

north. That’s where I heard them as I went by in the boat. I think we should

stay away from them. If they scent us and start an uproar, we’ll have the Raggah

out and on our asses very quickly.’ Smhee stopped suddenly, and said, ‘Hold it!’

Masha looked around quickly. What had he seen or heard? The fat man got down on

his knees and pushed against the earth just in front of him.

He rose and said, ‘There’s a pit under that firm-looking earth. I felt it give

way as I put my foot on it. That’s why it pays not to walk swiftly here.’

They circled it, Smhee testing each step before taking another. Masha thought

that if they had to go this slowly, they would take all night before they got to

the ridge. But then he led her to a rocky place, and she breathed easier.

However, he said, ‘They . could carve a pit in the stone and put a pivoting lid

over it.’

She said, ‘Why are we going this way? You said the entrances are on the north

end.’

‘I said that I only observed people entering on the north end. But I also

observed something very interesting near here. I want to check it out. It may be

nothing for us, but again…’

Still moving slowly but faster than on the earth, they came to a little pool. It

was about ten feet in diameter, a dark sheet of water on which bubbles appeared

and popped. Smhee crouched down and stared at its sinister-looking surface.

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

Presently, something scuttled with a clatter across the solid rock from the

shore. She jumped but uttered no exclamation. The thing looked like a spider in

the dark, an enormous one, larger than the one they’d killed. It paid no

attention to them or perhaps it wasn’t at all aware of them. It leaped into the

pool and disappeared. Smhee said, ‘Let’s get behind that boulder.’

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

‘When I was spying, I saw some things going into and coming out of this hole. It

was too far away to see what they were, though I suspected they were giant

spiders or perhaps crabs.’

‘So?’

His hand gripped her wrist.

‘Wait!’

The minutes oozed by like snails. Mosquitoes hummed around them, birds across

the river called, and once she heard, or thought she heard, that peculiar half

grunt, half-squall. And once she started when something splashed in the river. A

fish. She hoped that was all it was.

Smhee said softly, ‘Ah!’

He pointed at the pool. She strained her eyes and then saw what looked like a

swelling of the water in its centre. The mound moved towards the edge of the

pool, and then it left the water. It clacked as it shot towards the river. Soon

another thing came and then another, and all of a sudden at least twenty popped

up and clattered across the rocks.

Smhee finally relieved her bursting question.

‘They look like the bengil crab of Sharranpip. They live in that hole but they

must catch fish in the river.’

‘What is that to us?’

‘I think the pool must be an entrance to a cave. Or caves. The crabs are not

water-breathers.’

‘Are they dangerous?’

‘Only when in water. On land they’ll either run or, if cornered, try to defend

themselves. They aren’t poisonous, but their claws are very powerful.’

He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘The mage is using them to defend the

entrance to a cave, I’m sure. An entrance which is also an exit. For him as well

as for the crabs. That pool has to be one of his secret escape routes.’

Masha thought, ‘Oh, no!’ and she rolled her eyes. Was this fat fool really

thinking about trying to get inside through the pool? SL. ‘How could the mage

get out this way if the crabs would attack Bum?’

‘He would throw poisoned meat to them. He could do any number of things. What

matters just now is that he wouldn’t have bothered to bring their eggs along

from Sharranpip unless he had a use for them. Nor would he have planted them

here unless he needed them to guard this pool. Their flesh is poisonous to all

living things except the ghoondah fish.’

He chuckled. ‘But the mage has outsmarted himself. If I hadn’t noticed the

bengil, I would never have considered that pool as an entrance.’

While he had been whispering, another group had emerged and run for the river.

He counted them, thirty in all.

‘Now is the time to go in,’ he said. ‘They’ll all be feeding. That crab you

first saw was their scout. It found a good place for catching fish, determined

that there wasn’t any enemy around, and returned with the good news. In some

ways, they’re more ant than crab. Fortunately, their nests aren’t as heavily

populated as an anthole.’

He said, however, that they should wait a few minutes to make sure that all had

left. ‘By all, I mean all but a few. There are always a few who stay behind to

guard the eggs.’

‘Smhee, we’ll drown!’

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

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

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

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

worth the risk.’

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

‘It may be hunting us,’ Smhee said. ‘It could have smelled the blood of the

ape.’

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

‘I don’t know. We’re downwind from it, butTt sounds as if it’ll soon be here.

Good! That will put some stiffening in our backbone, heat our livers. Let’s go

now!’

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

They stuck their legs down into the chilly water. They found no bottom. Then

Smhee ran around to the inland side and bent down. He probed with his hand

around the edge.

‘The rock goes about a foot down, then curves inward,’ he said. ‘I’ll wager that

this was once a pothole of some sort. When Kemren came here, he carved out

tunnels to the cave it led to and then somehow filled it with river water.’ He

stood up.

The low strange cry was definitely closer now. She thought she saw something

huge in the darkness to the north, but it could be her imagination.

‘Oh, Igil!’ she said. ‘I have to urinate!’

‘Do it in the water. If it smells your urine on the land, it’ll know a human’s

been here. And it might call others of its kind. Or make such an uproar the

Raggah will come.’

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

‘Get in! It’s cold but not as cold as death!’ She let herself down to his side.

She had to bite her lip to keep from gasping with shock.

He gave her a few hurried instructions and said, ‘May Weda Krizhtawn smile upon

us!’ And he was gone.

10

She took a deep breath while she was considering getting out of the pool and

running like a lizard chased by a fox to the river and swimming across it. But

instead she dived, and as Smhee had told her to do, swam close to the ceiling of

rock. She was blind here even with her eyes open, and, though she thought mostly

about drowning, she had room to think about the crabs. | Presently, when her

lungs were about to burst and her head I rang and the violent urge to get air

was about to make her breathe, I her flailing hand was grasped by something.

The next instant, she was pulled into air.

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

He said, between the wheezings, ‘There’s plenty of air-space between the water

and the ceiling. I dived down and came up as fast as I could out of the water,

and I couldn’t touch the rock above.’

After they’d recovered their wind, he said, ‘You tread water while I go back. I

want to see how far back this space goes.’

She didn’t have to wait long. She heard his swimming – she hoped it was his and

not something else – and she called out softly when he was near.

He stopped and said, ‘There’s plenty of air until just before the tunnel or cave

reaches the pool. Then you have to dive under a downthrust ledge of rock. I

didn’t go back out, of course, not with that creature out there. But I’m sure my

estimate of distance is right.’

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

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

ceasing.

‘Does the rope or your boots bother you any?’ he said. ‘If they’re too heavy,

get rid of them.’

‘I’m all right.’

‘Good. I’ll be back soon – if things are as I think they are.’ She started to

call to him to wait for her, but it was too late. She clung to the rough stone

with her fingertips, moving her legs now and then. The silence was oppressive;

it rang in her ears. And once she gasped when something touched her thigh.

The rope and boots did drag her down, and she was thinking of at least getting

rid of the rope when something struck her belly. She grabbed it with one hand to

keep it from biting her and with the other reached for her dagger. She went

under water of course, and then she realized that she wasn’t being attacked.

Smhee, diving back, had run into her.

Their heads cleared the surface. Smhee laughed.

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

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

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

downcropping.’

He clung to the stone for a moment. Then he said, ‘Have you noticed how fresh

the air is? There’s a very slight movement of it, too.’

She had noticed but hadn’t thought about it. Her experience with watery caves

was nil until now.

‘I’m sure that each of these caves is connected to a hole which brings in fresh

air from above,’ he said. ‘Would the mage have gone to all this trouble unless

he meant to use this for escape?’

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

‘I pulled myself up the rock and felt around,’ he said. ‘There is a hole up

there to let air from the next cave into this one. And I’ll wager that there is

a hole in the ceiling. But it must curve so that light doesn’t come in. Or maybe

it doesn’t curve. If it were day above, we might see the hole.’

He dived; Masha followed him. They swam ahead then, putting their right hands

out from side to side to feel the wall. When they came to the next downcropping,

they went through beneath it at once.

At the end of this cave they felt a rock ledge that sloped gently upward. They

crawled out onto it. She heard him fumbling around and then he said, ‘Don’t cry

out. I’m lighting a torch.’

The light nevertheless startled her. It came from the tip of a slender stick of

wood in his hand. By its illumination she saw him apply it to the end of a small

pine torch. This caught fire, giving them more area of vision. The fire on the

stick went out. He put the stick back into the opened belt-bag.

‘We don’t want to leave any evidence we’ve been here,’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t

mention that this bag contains many things, including another waterproof bag.

But we must hurry. The torch won’t last long, and I’ve got just one more.’

They stood up and moved ahead. A few feet beyond the original area first

illuminated by the torch were some dark bulks. Boats. Twelve of them, with light

wood frameworks and skin-coverings. Each could hold three people. By them were

paddles.

Smhee took out a dagger and began ripping the skins. Masha helped him until only

one boat was left undamaged.

He said, ‘There must be entrances cut into the stone sections dividing the caves

we just came through. I’ll wager they’re on the left-hand side as you come in.

Anyone swimming in would naturally keep to the right wall and so wouldn’t see

the archways. The ledges where the crabs nest must also be on the left. Remember

that when we come back. But I’d better find out for sure. We want , to know

exactly how to get out when the time comes.’

He set his torch in a socket in the front of the boat and pushed the boat down

the slope and into the water. While Masha held the narrow craft steady, he got

into it. She stood on the shore, feeling lonely with all that darkness behind

her while she watched him by the light of the brand. Within a few minutes he

came back, grinning.

‘I was right! There’s an opening cut into the stone division. It’s just high

enough for a boat to pass through if you duck down.’

They dragged the boat back up onto the ledge. The cave ended about a hundred

feet from the water. To the right was a U-shaped entrance. By its side were

piles of torches and flint and steel and punk boxes. Smhee lit two, gave one to

Masha, and then returned to the edge of the ledge to extinguish his little one.

‘I think the mage has put all his magic spiders inside the caves,’ he said.

‘They’d require too much energy to maintain on the outside. The further away

they are from him, the more energy he has to use to maintain them. The energy

required increases according to the square of the distance.’

Masha didn’t ask him what he meant by ‘square’.

‘Stick close to me. Not just for your sake. For mine also. As I said, the mage

will not have considered women trying to get into his place, so his powers are

directed against men only. At least, I hope they are. That way he doesn’t have

to use as much energy on his magic.’

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

‘If you had as much experience as I, I wouldn’t hesitate a moment. But you’re

still an apprentice. V we get out of here alive, you will be on your way to

being a master.’

They went up the steps cut out of the stone. At the top was another archway.

Smhee stopped before it and held his torch high to look within it. But he kept

his head outside it.

‘Ha!’

11

He motioned her to come to his side. She saw that the interior of the deep

doorway was grooved. Above the grooves was the bottom of a slab of stone.

‘If the mechanism is triggered, that slab will crash down and block off anyone

chasing the mage,’ he said. ‘And it’d crush anyone in the portal. Maybe …’

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

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

He got as near to the entrance as he could without going into it, and he stuck

his torch through the opening.

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

webs.’

Masha breathed deeply.

‘If they’re real spiders, they’ll be intimidated by the torches,’ he said.

‘Unless the mage has conditioned them not to be or uses magic to overcome their

natural fear. The magic spiders won’t pay any attention to the flame.’

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

He bent down and peered at the stone floor just beyond the doorway. He turned.

‘Here. Your young eyes are better than my old ones. Can you see a thread or

anything like it raised above the floor just beyond the door?’

She said, ‘No, I can’t.’

‘Nevertheless.’

He threw his torch through the doorway. At his order, she got, down with her

cheek against the stone and looked against the flame.

She rose, saying, ‘I can see a very thin line about an inch above the floor. It

could be a cord.’

‘Just as I thought. An old Sharranpip trick.’

He stepped back after asking her to get out of the way. And he leaped through

the doorway and came down past the cord. She followed. As they picked up their

torches, he said pointing, ‘There are the mechanisms. One is the time-delay. The

other releases the door so it’ll fall behind the first who enters and trap him.

Anyone following will be crushed by the slab.’

After telling her to keep an eye on the rest of the room, he examined the array

of wheels, gears, and counterweights and the rope that ran from one device

through a hole in the ceiling.

‘The rope is probably attached to an alarm system above,’ he said. ‘Very well. I

know how to actuate both of these. If you should by any foul chance come back

alone, all you have to do is to jump through and then throw a torch or something

on that cord. The door will come down and block off your pursuers. But get

outside as fast as you can because…’

Masha said, ‘I know why.’

‘Good woman. Now, the spiders.’

The things came before the webs were clearly visible in the lights. She had

expected to see the lights reflected redly in their eyes, but they weren’t.

Their many eyes were huge and purplish and cold. They scuttled forwards, waving

the foremost pair of legs, then backed away as Smhee waved his torch at them.

Masha walked half-turned away from him so that she could use the brand to scare

away any attack from the rear or side.

Suddenly, something leaped from the edge of the darkness and soared towards her.

She thrust the brand at it. But the creature seemed to go through the torch.

It landed on her arm and seized the harfd that held the torch. She had clenched

her teeth to keep from screaming if something like this happened. But she didn’t

even think of voicing her terror and disgust. She closed her hand on the body of

the thing to crush it, and the fingers felt nothing.

The next moment, the spider disappeared.

She told Smhee what had happened.

‘Thanks be to Klooshna!’ he said. ‘You are invulnerable to them. If you weren’t,

you’d be swelling up now!’

‘But what ifit’d been a real spider?’ she said as she kept waving her torch at

the monsters that circled them. ‘I didn’t know until my hand closed on it that

it was not real.’

‘Then you’d be dying. But the fact that it ignored the brand showed you what it

really was. You realized that even if you didn’t think consciously about it.’

They came to another archway. While she threw her torch through it and got down

to look for another thread, Smhee held off the spiders.

‘There doesn’t seem to be any,’ she said.

‘Seem isn’t good enough,’ he said. ‘Hah, back, you creatures of evil! Look

closely! Can you see any thin lines in the floor itself? Minute cracks?’

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

‘A trapdoor to drop us into a pit,’ he said. ‘You jump past it. And let’s hope

there isn’t another trap just beyond it.’

She said that she’d need a little run to clear the line. He charged the spiders,

waving his torch furiously, and they backed away. When she called to him that

she was safe, he turned and ran and leaped. A hairy, many-legged thing dashed

through the entrance after him. Masha stepped up to the line and thrust her

brand at it. It stopped. Behind it were masses that moved, shadows of solidity.

Smhee leaped towards the foremost one and jammed the burning red of his brand

into the head. The stink of charred flesh assailed their nostrils. It ran

backwards but was stopped by those behind it. Then they retreated, and the

thing, its eyes burned out, began running around and around, finally

disappearing into the darkness. The others were now just beyond the doorway in

the other cave. Smhee threw his torch into it.

‘That’ll keep them from coming through!’ he said, panting. ‘I should have

brought some extra torches, but even the greatest mind sometimes slips. Notice

how the weight of those spiders didn’t make the trapdoor drop? It must have a

minimum limit. You only weigh eighty-five pounds. Maybe…?’

‘Forget it,’ she said.

‘ Right you are,’, he said, grinning. ‘But Masha, if you are to be a master

thief, you must think of everything.’

She thought of reminding him about the extra torches he’d forgotten but decided

not to. They went on ahead through an enormous cavern and came to a tunnel. From

its dark mouth streamed a stink like a newly opened tomb. And they heard the cry

that was half-grunt, half-squall.

Smhee halted. ‘I hate to go into that tunnel. But we must. You look upward for

holes in the ceiling, and I’ll look everywhere else.’

The stone, however, looked solid. When they were halfway down the bore, they

were blasted with a tremendous growling and roaring.

‘Lions?’ Masha said.

‘No. Bears.’

12

At the opposite end were two gigantic animals, their eyes gleaming redly in the

light, their fangs a dull white.

The two intruders advanced after waiting for the bears to charge. But these

stayed by the doorway, though they did not cease their thunderous roaring nor

their slashes at the air with their paws.

‘The bears were making the strange cry,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen dancing bears in

the bazaars, but I never heard them make a noise like that. Nor were they near

as large.’

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

When they were within a few feet of the beasts, they stopped. The stench was

almost overpowering now, and they were deafened by the uproar in the narrowness

of the tunnel.

Smhee told her to hold her torch steady. He opened his belt-bag and pulled out

two lengths of bamboo pipe and joined them. Then, from a small wooden case, he

cautiously extracted a feathered dart. He inserted it in one and raised the

blowpipe almost to his lips.

‘There’s enough poison on the tip of the dart to kill a dozen men,’ he said.

‘However, I doubt that it would do much harm, if any, if the dart sticks in

their thick fat. So…’

He waited a long time, the pipe now at his lips. Then, his cheeks swelled, and

the dart shot out. The bear to the right, roaring even louder, grabbed at the

missile stuck in its left eye. Smhee fitted another dart into the pipe and took

a step closer. The monster on the left lunged against the restraining collar and

chain. Smhee shot the second dart into its tongue.

The first beast struck fell to one side, its paws waving, and its roars

subsided. The other took longer to become quiet, but presently both were snoring

away.

‘Let’s hope they die,’ Smhee said. ‘I doubt we’ll have time to shoot them again

when we come back.’

Masha thought that a more immediate concern was that the roaring might have

alarmed the mage’s servants.

They went through a large cavern, the floor of which was littered with human,

cattle, and goat skeletons and bear dung. They breathed through their mouths

until they got to an exit. This was a doorway which led to a flight of steps. At

the top of the steps was another entrance with a closed massive wooden door.

Affixed to one side was a great wooden bar.

‘Another hindrance to pursuers,’ Smhee said. ‘Which will, in our case, be the

Raggah.’

After a careful inspection of the door, he gripped its handle and slowly opened

it. Freshly oiled, it swung noiselessly. They went out into a very large room

illuminated by six great torches at one end.. Here streams of water ran out from

holes in the ceiling and down wooden troughs and onto many wooden wheels set

between metal uprights.

Against the right-hand side of the far wall was another closed door as massive

as the first. It, too, could be barred shut.

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

symbols.

‘There’s magic here,’ Smhee said. ‘I smell it.’

He strode to the pool in which were set the wheels. The wheels went around and

around impelled by the downpouring water. Masha counted aloud. Twelve.

‘A magical number,’ Smhee said.

They were set in rows of threes. At one end of the axle of each were attached

some gears which in turn were fixed to a shaft that ran into a box under the

wheel. Smhee reached out to the nearest wheel from the pool edge and stopped it.

Then he released it and opened the lid of the box beneath the wheel. Masha

looked past him into the interior of the box. She saw a bewildering array of

tiny gears and shafts. The shafts were connected to more gears at the axle end

of tiny wheels on uprights.

Smhee stopped the wheel again and spun it against the force of the waterfall.

The mechanism inside started working backwards.

Smhee smiled. He closed the box and went to the door and barred it. He walked

swiftly to the other side of the pool. There was a large box on the floor by it.

He opened it and removed some metal pliers and wrenches.

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

‘Why?’

‘I’ll explain while we work.’ He looked around. ‘Kemren would have done better

to have set human guards here. But I suppose he thought that no one would ever

get this far. Or, if they did, they’d not have the slightest idea what the

wheels are for.’

He told her what she was to do with the wheels, and they waded into the pool.

The water only came to their ankles; a wide drain in the centre ensured against

overflow.

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

‘These boxes contain devices which convert the mechanical power of the water

driven wheels to magical power,’ he said. ‘There are said to be some in the

temple ofWeda Krizhtawn, but I was too lowly to be allowed near them. However, I

heard the high priests talking about them. They sometimes got careless in the

presence of us lowly ones. Anyway, we were bound by vows to keep silent.

‘I don’t know exactly what these particular wheels are for. But they must be

providing energy for whatever magic he’s using. Part of the energy, anyway.’

She didn’t really understand what he was talking about, though she had an

inkling. She worked steadily, ignoring the wetting and removed a wheel. Then she

turned it around and reattached it.

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

also symbols painted on its side.

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

When their work was done, Smhee said, ‘I don’t know what their reversal will do.

But I’ll wager that it won’t be for Kemren’s good. We must hurry now. If he’s

sensitive to the inflow-outflow of his magic, .he’ll know something’s wrong.’

She thought that it would be better not to have aroused the mage. However, Smhee

was the master; she, the apprentice.

Smhee started to turn away from the wheels but stopped.

‘Look!’

His finger pointed at the wheels.

‘Well?’

‘Don’t you see something strange?’

It was a moment before she saw what had made her uneasy without realizing why.

No water was spilling from the paddles down to the pool. The water just seemed

to disappear after striking them. She looked wonderingly from them to him. ‘I

see what you mean.’

He spread out his hands. ‘I don’t know what’s happening. I’m not a mage or a

sorcerer. But… that water has to be going some place.’

They put their boots back on, and he unshot the bar of the door. It led to

another flight of steps, ending in another door. They went down a corridor the

walls of which were bare stone. But there were also lit torches set in brackets

on them.

At the end of the corridor they came to a round room. Light came down from

torches; the room was actually a tall shaft. Looking up from the bottom, they

could see a black square outlined narrowly by bright light at its top.

13

Voices came from above.

‘It has to be a lift,’ Smhee whispered. He said something in his native tongue

that sounded like a curse.

‘We’re stuck here until the lift comes down.’

He’d no sooner spoken than they heard a squeal as of metal, and the square began

descending slowly.

‘We’re in luck!’ Smhee said. ‘Unless they’re sending down men to see what’s

happened to the wheels.’

They retreated through the door at the other end. Here they waited with their

blades ready. Smhee kept the door open a crack.

‘There are only two. Both are carrying bags and one has a haunch of meat.

They’re going to feed the bears and the spiders!’

Masha wondered how the men intended to get past the bears to the arachnids. But

maybe the bears attacked only strangers.

‘One man has a torch,’ he said.

The door swung open, and a Raggah wearing a red-and-black striped robe stepped

through. Smhee drove his dagger into the man’s throat. Masha came out from

behind the door and thrust her sword through the other man’s neck.

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

on.

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

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

‘What about the blood on the robes?’

‘We could wash it out, but then we’d look strange with dripping robes. We’ll

just have to take a chance.’

They left the bodies lying on the floor and went back to the lift. This was an

open-sided cage built of light (and expensive) imported bamboo. The top was

closed, but it had a” trap door. A rope descended through it.

They looked up but could see no one looking down.

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

‘Whoever pulls this up is gone. No doubt he, or they, are not expecting the two

to return so early. Well, we must climb up the pull-ropes. I hope you’re up to

it.’

‘Better than you, fat one,’ Masha said.

He smiled. ‘We’ll see.’

Masha, however, pulled herself up faster than he. She had to climb up onto the

beam to which the wheel was attached and then crawl along it and swing herself

down into the entrance. Smhee caught her as she landed on the edge, though she

didn’t need his help. They were in a hallway the walls of which were hung with

costly rugs and along which was expensive furniture. Oil lamps gave an adequate

illumination.

‘Now comes the hard part,’ he said between deep breaths. ‘There is a staircase

at each end of this hall. Which leads to the mage?’

‘I’d take that one,’ she said, pointing.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t exactly know why. I just feel that it’s the right one.’ He smiled,

saying, ‘That’s as good a reason as any for me. Let’s go.’ Their hands against

each other inside their voluminous sleeves, but holding daggers, the hoods

pulled out to shadow their faces, they walked up the stairs. These curved to end

in another hall, even more luxuriously furnished. There were closed doors along

it, but Smhee wouldn’t open them.

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

They went up another flight of steps in time to see the back of a Raggah going

down the hall. At the corner, Masha looked around it. No one in sight. She

stepped out, and just then a Raggah came around the corner at the right-hand end

of the hall. She slowed, imperceptibly, she hoped, then resumed her stride. She

heard Smhee behind her saying, ‘When you get close, within ten feet of her, move

quickly to one side.’ She did so just as the Raggah, a woman, noticed the blood

on the front of her robe. The woman opened her mouth, and Smhee’s thrown knife

plunged into her belly. She fell forwards with a thump. The fat man withdrew his

knife, wiped it on the robe, and they dragged her through a doorway. The room

was unlit. They dropped her near the door and went out, closing it behind them.

They went down to the end of the hall from which the woman had come and looked

around the corner. There was a very wide and high-ceilinged corridor there, and

from a great doorway halfway down it came much light, many voices, and the odour

of cooking. Masha hadn’t realized until then how hungry she was; saliva ran in

her mouth.

‘The other way,’ Smhee said, and he trotted towards the staircase. At its top,

Masha looked around the corner. Halfway down the length of this hall a man

holding a spear stood before a door. By his side crouched a huge black wolfish

dog on a leash.

She told Smhee what she’d seen.

As excited as she’d ever seen him, he said, ‘He must be guarding the mage’s

rooms!’

Then, in a calmer tone, ‘He isn’t aware of what we’ve done. He must be with a

woman or a man. Sexual intercourse, you know, drains more out of a person than

just physical energy. Kemren won’t be sensitive to the wheels just now.’

Masha didn’t see any reason to comment on that. She said, ‘The dog didn’t notice

me, but we can’t get close before he alerts the guard.’

Masha looked behind her. The hall was still empty. But what if the mage had

ordered a meal to be delivered soon?

She told Smhee what she’d just thought. After a brief consultation, they went

back down the stairs to the hall. There they got an exquisitely silver-chased

tray and put some small painted dishes and gold pitchers on it. These they

covered with a golden cloth, the worth of which was a thousand times more than

Masha could make if she worked as dentist and midwife until she was a hundred

years old.

With this assemblage, which they hoped would look like a late supper tray, they

went to the hall. Masha had said that if the mage was with a sexual partner, it

would look more authentic if they carried two trays. But even before Smhee

voiced his objections, she had thought that he had to have his hands free.

Besides, one tray clattering on the floor was bad enough, though its impact

would be softened by the thick rug.

The guard seemed half-asleep, but the dog, rising to its feet and growling,

fully awakened him. He turned towards them, though not without a glance at the

other end of the hall first. Masha, in front of Smhee, walked as if she had a

right to be there. The guard held the spear pointing at them in one hand and

said something in his harsh back-of-the-throat speech.

Smhee uttered a string of nonsense syllables in a low but equally harsh voice.

The guard said something. And then Masha stepped to one side, dropping the tray.

She bent over, muttering something guttural, as if she were apologizing for her

clumsiness.

‘ She couldn’t see Smhee, but she knew that he was snatching the blowpipe from

his sleeve and applying it to his lips. She came up from her bent position, her

sword leaping out of her scabbard, and she ran towards the dog. It bounded

towards her, the guard having released the leash. She got the blade out from the

leather just in time and rammed it into the dog’s open mouth as it sprang

soundlessly towards her throat. The blade drove deep into its throat but she

went backwards from its weight and fell onto the floor.

The sword had been torn from her grip, but the dog was heavy and unmoving on her

chest. She pushed him off though he must have weighed as much as she. She rolled

over and got quickly, but trembling, to her feet. The guard was sitting down,

his back against the wall. One hand clutched the dart stuck in his cheek. His

eyes were open but glazing. In a few seconds the hand fell away. He slumped to

one side, and his bowels moved noisily.

The dog lay with the upper length of the sword sticking from its mouth. His

tongue extended from the jaws, bloody, seeming almost an independent entity, a

stricken worm.

Smhee grabbed the bronze handle of the door.

‘Pray for us, Masha! If he’s barred the door on the inside …!’

The door swung open.

Smhee bounded in, the dead man’s spear in his hands. Masha, following, saw a

large room the air of which was green and reeking of incense. The walls were

covered with tapestries, and the heavy dark furniture was ornately carved with

demons’ heads. They paused to listen and heard nothing except a faint burbling

noise.

‘Get the bodies in quickly!’ Smhee said, and they dragged the corpses inside.

They expected the dreaded mage to walk in at any time, but he still had not

appeared when they shut the door.

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

They entered the next room cautiously. This was even larger and was obviously

the bedroom. The bed was huge and round and on a platform with three steps. It

was covered with a rich scarlet material brocaded in gold.

‘He must be working in his laboratory,’ Smhee whispered.

They slowly opened the door to the next room.

The burbling became louder then. Masha saw that it proceeded from a great glass

vessel shaped like an upside-down cone. A black-green liquid simmered in it, and

large bubbles rose from it and passed out the open end. Beneath it was a brazier

filled with glowing coals. From the ceiling above a metal vent admitted the

fumes.

The floor was mosaic marble in which were set pentagrams and nonagrams. From the

centre of one rose a wisp of evil-smelling smoke. A few seconds later, the smoke

ceased.

There were many tables holding other mysterious equipment and racks holding long

thick rolls of parchment and papyrus. In the middle of the room was a very large

desk of some shiny reddish wood. Before it was a chair of the same wood, its

arms and back carved with human-headed dragons.

The mage, clad in a purple silk robe which was embroidered with golden centaurs

and gryphons, was in the chair. His face was on the desk, and his arms were

spread out on it. He stank of rancid butter.

Smhee approached him slowly, then grabbed the thin curly hair of the mage’s

topknot and raised the head.

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

‘What happened to him?’ she whispered. .

Smhee did not reply at once. He lifted the body from the chair and placed it on

the floor. Then he knelt and thumped the mage’s chest.

The fat man rose smiling.

‘What happened is that the reversal of the wheels’ motion caused the water which

should have fallen off the paddles to go instead to the mage. The conversion of

physical energy to magical energy was reversed.’

He paused.

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

He raised his eyes and said, ‘Blessed is Weda Krizhtawn, the goddess of water!

She has her revenge through her faithful servant, Rhandhee Ghee!’

He looked at Masha.’ That is my true name, Rhandhee Ghee. And I have revenged

the goddess and her worshippers. The defiler and thief is dead, and I can go

home now. Perhaps she will forgive some of my sins because I have fulfilled her

intent. I won’t go to hell, surely. I will suffer in a purgatory for a while and

then, cleansed with pain, will go to the lowest heaven. And then, perhaps…’

‘You forget that I am to be paid,’ she said. ‘No, I didn’t. Look. He wears

golden rings set with jewels of immense value. Take them, and let’s be off.’

She shuddered and said, ‘No. They would bring misfortune.’

‘Very well. The next room should be his treasure chamber.’ It was. There were

chests and boxes filled with emeralds, diamonds, turquoises, rubies, and many

other jewels. There were golden and silver idols and statuettes. There was

enough wealth to purchase a dozen of the lesser cities of the empire and all

their citizens.

But she could only take what she could carry and not be hampered in the leaving.

Exclaiming ecstatics, she reached towards a coffer sparkling with diamonds. At

her touch, the jewels faded and were gone.

14

She cried out in anguish.

‘They’re products of his magic!’ Smhee said. ‘Set here to fool thieves. Benna

must have taken one of these, though how he got here and then away I’ve no idea!

The jewel did not disappear because the mage was alive and his powers were

strong. But I’ll wager that not. long after the rat carried the jewel off, it

disappeared. That’s why the searchers found no jewel though they turned the city

upside down and inside out!’

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

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

But there were no other rooms.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Smhee said. He tore down the tapestries and began

tapping on the walls, which were of a dense-grained purplish wood erected over

the stone. Presently, he said, ‘Ah!’ and he moved his hands swiftly over the

area. ‘Here’s a hole in the wood just big enough to admit my little finger. I

put my finger in thus, and I pull thus, and thus…!’

A section of the wood swung out. Masha got a burning lamp and thrust it into the

room beyond. The light fell on ten open chests and twenty open coffers. Jewels

sparkled.

They entered.

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

Masha untied the little bag attached to her belt, hesitated, then scooped out

enough to fill the bag. It almost tore her heart apart to leave the rest, but

she knew that Smhee’s advice was wisdom. Perhaps, some day, she could come back

for more. No. That would be stupid. She had farmore than enough.

On the way out, Smhee stopped. He opened the mage’s robe and revealed a smooth

shaven chest on which was tattooed a representation of a fearful six-armed four

legged being with a glaring long-tusked face. He cut around this and peeled the

skin off and put it rolled and folded into a small jar of ointment. Replacing

the jar in his bag, he rose, saying, ‘The goddess knows that I would not lie

about his death. But this will be the proof if any is demanded.’

‘Maybe we should look for the mage’s secret exit,’ she said. ‘That way, we won’t

run into the Raggah.’

‘No. At any moment someone may see that the guard is missing. Besides, the mage

will have put traps in his escape route, and we might not elude those.’

They made their way back to the corridor of the lift shaft without being

observed. But two men stood in front of the entrance to the lift. They were

talking excitedly and looking down the shaft. Then one ran down the corridor,

away from the corner behind which the two intruders watched.

‘Going to get help before they venture down to find out why the two feeders

haven’t come back,’ Smhee muttered.

The man who’d stayed was looking down the shaft. Masha and Smhee took him from

behind, one cutting the throat, the other stabbing him in the back. They let

themselves down on the ropes and then cut them before going down through the

open trap door. But as they left the cage, a spear shot through the trap door

and thudded point-first into the floor. Men shouted above.

‘They’ll bring ropes and come down on those,’ Smhee said. ‘And they’ll send

others outside to catch us when we come out of the pool. Run, but remember the

traps’.’

And the spiders, she thought. And the crabs. I hope the bears are dead. They

were. The spiders, all real now that the mage was dead, were alive. These were

driven back by the torches the two had paused to light, and they got to the

skin-boat. They pushed this out and began paddling with desperation. The craft

went through the first arch and then through the second. To their right now were

some ledges on which were masses of pale-white things with stalked eyes and

clacking pincers. The crabs. The two directed their boat away from these, but

the writhing masses suddenly became individual figures leaping outwards and

splashing into the dark water. Very quickly, the ledges were bare. There was no

sign of the monsters, but the two knew that these were swimming towards them.

They paddled even faster, though it had not seemed possible until then. And then

the prow of the boat bumped into the wall. ‘Swim for it!’ Smhee bellowed, his

voice rebounding from the far walls and high ceilings of the cave.

Masha feared entering the water; she expected to be seized by those huge claws.

But she went over, the boat tipping, and dived.

Something did touch her leg as she went under the stone down-cropping. Then her

head was above the surface of the pool and Smhee’s was beside her.

They scrambled out onto the hard stone. Behind them came the clacking, but none

of the crabs tried to leave the pool.

The sky was black; thunder bellowed in the north; lightning traced white veins.

A wind blew, chilling them in their wet clothes.

They ran towards the dugout but not in a straight line since they had to avoid

the bushes with the poisonous thorns. Before they reached it, rain fell. They

dragged the craft into the river and got aboard. Above them lightning cracked

across the sky. Another bolt struck shortly thereafter, revealing two bears and

a number of men behind them.

‘They can’t catch us now!’ Smhee yelled. ‘But they’ll be going back to put their

horses on rafts. They’ll go all the way into Sanctuary itself to get us!’

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

The wind-struck river was rough now, but they got through the waves to the

opposite shore. They climbed panting up the ridge and found their horses,

whinnying from fear of the lightning. When they got to the bottom of the ridge,

they sped away, their passage fitfully lit by the dreadful whiteness that seemed

to smash all around them. They kept their horses at a gallop for a mile, then

eased them up.

‘There’s no way they can catch us!’ Smhee shouted through the thunder. ‘We’ve

got too much of a head-start!’

Dawn came. The rain stopped. The clouds cleared away; the hot winter sun of the

desert rose. They stopped at the hut where they had slept, and the horses

rested, and they ate bread and cheese.

‘Three more hours will bring us within sight of Sanctuary,’ the fat man said.

‘We’ll get your family aboard the Sailfish, and the Raggah can search for us in

vain.’

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

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

He laughed so much he choked on his bread. When he’d cleared his throat, he

said, ‘You are some woman! Brave as the goddess makes them! And supple in mind,

too! If I were not vowed to chastity, I would woo you! I may be forty-five and

fat, but…’

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

horror.

Masha became equally paralysed.

A small purple spider was on Smhee’s hand.

‘Move slowly,’ he said softly through rigid lips. ‘I dare not move. Slap it when

you’ve got your hand within a few inches of it.’

She got up and took a step towards him. Where had the creature come from? There

were no webs in the hut. Had it come from outside and crawled upon him?

She took another step, leaned over, and brought her hand slowly down at an angle

towards the thing. Its eyes were black and motionless, seemingly unaware of her

presence.

Maybe it’s not poisonous, she thought.

Suddenly, Smhee screamed, and he crushed the spider with his other hand. He

leaped up then, brushing off the tiny body.

‘It bit me! It bit me!’

The dark swelling had started.

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

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

‘It must have crawled into my bag. It couldn’t have done it when we were on the

way to the mage’s rooms. It must have got in when I opened the bag to skin off

the tattoo.’

He howled. ‘The mage has got his revenge!’

‘You don’t know that,’ she said, but she was certain that it was as Smhee had

said. She removed her small belt-bag and carefully poured out the jewels. But

that was all it contained.

‘It’s beginning to hurt,’ Smhee said. ‘I can make it back to the city. Benna

did, and he was bitten many times. But I know these spiders. I will die as

surely as he did, though I will take longer.

There is no antidote.’

He sat down, and for a while he rocked back and forth, eyes closed, moaning.

Then he said, ‘Masha, there is no sense in my going on with you. But, since I

have made it possible for you to be as wealthy as a queen, I beg you to do one

favour for me. If it is not too much to ask.’

‘What is that?’ she said.

‘Take the jar containing the tattooed skin to Sharranpip. And there tell our

story to the highest priest of Weda Krizhtawn. He will pray for me to her, and a

great tombstone will be erected for me in the courtyard of the peacocks, and

pilgrims will come from all over Sharranpip and the islands around and will pray

for me. But if you don’t want…’

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

She stood up and said, ‘I promise you that I will do that. That, as you said, is

the least I can do.’

He smiled, though it cost him to do it.

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

‘But the Raggah … they will torture you!’

‘No. This bag contains a small vial of poison. They will find only a corpse. If

they find me at all.’

Masha burst into tears, but she took the jar, and after kissing Smhee again, she

rode off, his horse trotting behind hers. At the top of the hill she stopped to

look behind at the hut. Far off, coming swiftly, was a dark mass. The Raggah.

She turned away and urged her horse into a gallop.

GODDESS

By David Drake

‘By Savankala and the Son!’ Regli swore, ‘why can’t she bear and be done with

it? And why does she demand to see her brother but won’t see me?’ The young

lord’s sweat-stained tunic looked as if it had been slept in. Indeed, Regli

would have slept in it if he had slept any during the two days he had paced

outside the bedroom, now couching room, of his wife. Regli’s hands repeatedly

flexed the shank of his riding crop. There were those – and not all of them

women – who would have said that agitation heightened – Regli’s already notably

good looks, but he had no mind for such nonsense now. Not with his heir at risk!

‘Now, now,’ said Doctor Mernorad, patting the silver-worked lapels of his robe.

The older man prided himself as much on his ability to see both sides of a

question as he did on his skill at physic – though neither ability seemed much

valued today in Regli’s townhouse. ‘One can’t hurry the gods, you know. The

child will be born when Sabellia says it should be. Any attempt to hasten

matters would be sacrilege as well as foolishness. Why, you know there are

some… I don’t know what word to use, practitioners, who use forceps in a

delivery? Forceps of metal! It’s disgusting. I tell you. Prince Kadakithis

makes a great noise about smugglers and thieves; but if he wanted to clean up

a real evil in Sanctuary, he’d start with the so-called doctors who

don’t have proper connections with established temples.’

‘Well, damn it,’ Regli snapped, ‘you’ve got a “proper connection” to the Temple

of Sabellia in Ranke itself, and you can’t tell me why my wife’s been two days

in labour. And if any of those bitch-midwives who’ve stood shift in there know’

– he gestured towards the closed door – ‘they sure aren’t telling anybody.’

Regli knuckled the fringe of blond whiskers sprouting on his jawbone. His wealth

and breeding had made him a person of some importance even in Ranke. Here in

Sanctuary, where he served as Master of the Scrolls for the royal governor, he

was even less accustomed to being balked. The fact that Fate, in the form of his

wife’s abnormally-prolonged labour, was balking him infuriated Regli to the

point that he needed to lash out at something. ‘I can’t imagine why Samlane

insists on seeing no one but midwives from the Temple of Heqt,’ he continued,

snapping his riding crop at specks on the mosaic walls. ‘That place has no very

good reputation, I’m told. Not at all.’

‘Well, you have to remember that your wife is from Cirdon,’ said Mernorad

reasonably, keeping a wary eye on his patron’s lash. ‘Though they’ve been forty

years under the Empire, worship of the Trinity hasn’t really caught on there.

I’ve investigated the matter, and these women do have proper midwives’ licences.

There’s altogether too much loose talk among laymen about “this priesthood” or

“that particular healer” not being competent. I assure you that the medical

profession keeps very close watch on itself. The worst to be said on the record

– the only place it counts – about the Temple of Heqt here in Sanctuary is that

thirty years ago the chief priest disappeared. Unfortunate, of course, but

nothing to discredit the temple.’

The doctor paused, absently puffing out one cheek, then the other, so that his

curly white sideburns flared. ‘Though I do think,’ he added, ‘that since you

have engaged me anyway, that their midwives might consult with one of my, well,

stature.’

The door between the morning room and the hall was ajar. A page in Regli’s

livery of red and gold tapped the jamb deferentially. The two Rankans looked up,

past the servant to the heavier man beyond in the hall. ‘My lord,’ said the page

bowing, ‘Samlor hil Samt.’

Samlor reached past the servant to swing the door fully open before Regli nodded

entry. He had unpinned his dull travelling cloak and draped it over his left

arm, close to his body where it almost hid the sheathed fighting knife. Northern

fashion, Samlor wore boots and breeches with a long-sleeved over-tunic gathered

at the wrists. The garments were plain and would have been a nondescript brown

had they not been covered with white road dust. His sole jewellery was a neck

thonged silver medallion stamped with the toad face of the goddess Heqt.

Samlor’s broad face was deep red, the complexion of a man who will never tan but

who is rarely out of the sun. He cleared his throat, rubbed his mouth with the

back of his big fist, and said, ‘My sister sent for me. She’s in there, the

servant says?’ He gestured.

‘Why yes,’ said Regli, looking a little puzzled to find the quirt in his hands.

The doctor was getting up from his chair. ‘Why, you’re much older, aren’t you?’

the lord continued inanely.

‘Fourteen years,’ Samlor agreed sourly, stepping past the two Rankans to the

bedroom door. He tossed his cloak over one of the ivory-inlaid tables along the

wall. ‘You’d have thought the folks would have guessed something when the five

between us were stillborn, but no. Hell, no … And much luck the bitch ever

brought them.’

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

Samlor turned, his knuckles already poised to rap on the door panel. ‘You had a

choice,’ he said. ‘I’m the one who was running caravans through the mountains,

trying to keep the Noble House of Kodrix afloat long enough to marry its

daughter well – and her slutting about so that the folks had to go to Ranke to

get offers from anybody but a brothel keeper. No wonder they drink.’ He hammered

on the door.

Mernorad tugged the white-faced Regli back. ‘Master Samlor,’ the physician said

sharply.

‘It’s Samlor, dammit!’ the Cirdonian was shouting in response to a question from

within the bedroom. ‘I didn’t ride 500 miles to stand at a damned doorway,

either.’ He turned to Mernorad. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

The physician pointed. ‘Your weapon,’ he said. ‘The lady Sam-lane has been

distraught. Not an uncommon thing for women in her condition, of course. She,

ah, attempted to have her condition, ah, terminated some months ago …

Fortunately, we got word before … And even though she has since been watched

at all times, she, ah, with a spoon … Well. I’d simply rather that -things

like your knife – not be where the Lady could snatch them, lest something

untoward occur…’

Within the bedroom, a bronze bar creaked as it was lifted from the door slots.

Samlor drew his long dagger and laid it on an intaglio table. Only the edge of

the steel winked. The hilt was of a hard, pale wood, smooth but wrapped with a

webbing of silver wire for a sure grip. The morning room had been decorated by a

former occupant. In its mosaic battle scenes and the weapons crossed on its

walls, the room suited Samlor’s appearance far better than it did that of the

young Rankan lord who now owned it.

The door was opened inwards by a sour, grey-haired woman in temple garb. The air

that puffed from the bedroom was warm and cloying like the smell of an overripe

peach. Two branches of the sextuple oil lamp within had been lighted, adding to

the sunlight seeping through the stained glass separating the room from the

inner court.

If the midwife looked harsh, then Samlane herself on the bed looked like Death.

All the flesh of her face and her long, white hands seemed to have been drawn

into the belly that now mounded her linen wrapper. A silk coverlet lay rumpled

at the foot of the bed. ‘Come in, brother dear.’ A spasm rippled the wrapper.

Samlane’s face froze, her mouth half open. The spasm passed. ‘I won’t keep you

long, Samlor,’ she added through a false smile. ‘Leah, wait outside.’

Midwife, husband, and doctor all began to protest. ‘Heqt’s face, get out, get

outV Samlane shrieked, her voice rising even higher as a new series of

contractions racked her. Her piercing fury cut through all objection. Samlor

closed the door behind the midwife. Those in the morning room heard the door

latched but not barred. Regli’s house had been built for room-by-room defence in

the days when bandits or a mob would burst into a dwelling and strip it, in

despite of anything the government might attempt.

The midwife stood, stiff and dour, with her back to the door. Regli ignored her

and slashed at the wall again. ‘In the year I’ve known her, Samlane hasn’t

mentioned her brother a dozen times -and each of those was a curse!’ he said.

‘You must remember, this is a trying time for the lady, too,’ Mernorad said.

‘With her parents, ah, unable to travel, it’s natural that she wants her

brother-‘

‘Natural?’ Regli shouted. ‘It’s my child she’s bearing! My son, perhaps. What am

I doing out here?’

‘What would you be doing in there?’ the doctor observed, tart himself in

response to his patron’s anger.

Before either could say more, the door swung open, bumping the midwife. Samlor

gestured with his thumb. ‘She wants you to fix her pillows,’ he said curtly. He

picked up his knife and began walking across the morning room towards the hall.

The midwife eeled back into the bedroom, hiding all but a glimpse of Samlane’s

face. The lampstand beside the bed gave her flesh a yellow cast. The bar thudded

back in place almost as soon as the door closed.

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

Samlor shook his arm free. ‘Ask her, if you think it’s any of your business,’ he

said. ‘I’m in no humour to chatter.’ Then he was out of the room and already

past the servant who should have escorted him down the staircase to the front

door.

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

company.’

For once it was Regli who was reasonable. ‘Oh, that’s to be expected,’ he said.

‘In Cirdon, the nobility always prided itself on being useless – which is why

Cirdon is part of the Rankan Empire and not the reverse. It must have bothered

him very much when he had to go into trade himself or starve with the rest of

his family.’ Regli cleared his throat, then patted his left palm with the quirt.

‘That of course explains his hostility towards Samlane and the absurd-‘

‘Yes; quite absurd,’ Mernorad agreed hastily.

‘-absurd charges he levelled at her,’ the young noble continued. ‘Just

bitterness, even though he himself had preserved her from the, oh, as he saw it,

lowering to which he had been subjected. Actually, I have considerable mining

and trading interests myself, besides my – very real – duties here to the

State.’

The diversion had settled Regli’s mind only briefly. He resumed his pacing, the

shuffle of his slippers and his occasional snappish comments being almost the

only sounds in the morning room for an hour. ‘Do you hear something?’ Mernorad

said suddenly.

Regli froze, then ran to the bedroom door. ‘Samlane!’ he shouted. ‘ Samlane /’

He gripped the bronze latch and screamed as his palm seared.

Acting with dreadful realization and more strength than was to be expected of a

man of his age, Mernorad ripped a battle-axe from the staples holding it to the

wall. He swung it against the door panel. The oak had charred to wafer thinness.

The heavy blade splintered through, emitting a jet of oxygen into the

superheated bedroom.

The room exploded, blasting the door away in a gout of fire and splinters. The

flames hurled Mernorad against the far wall as a blazing husk before they curled

up to shatter the plastered ceiling.

The flame sucked back, giving Regli a momentary glimpse into the fully-involved

room. The midwife had crawled from the bed almost back to the door before she

died. The fire had arched her back so that the knife wound in her throat gaped

huge and red.

Samlane may have cut her own jugular as well, but too little remained of her to

tell. She had apparently soaked the bedding in lamp oil and then clutched the

open flame to her. All Regli really had to see, however, to drive him screaming

from his house, was the boot knife. The wooden hilt was burned off, and the bare

tang poked upright from Samlane’s distended belly.

Samlor had asked a street-boy where the Temple of Heqt was. The child had

blinked, then brightened and said, ‘Oh – the Black Spire!’ Sitting on a bench

outside a tavern across from the temple, Samlor thought he understood why. The

temple had been built of grey limestone, its walls set in a square but roofed

with the usual hemispherical dome. The obelisk crowning the dome had originally

commemorated the victories of Alar hit Aspar, a mercenary general ofCirdonian

birth. Alar had done very well by his adopted city – and well enough for himself

in the process to be able to endow public buildings as one form of conspicuous

consumption. None of Alar’s boasts remained visible through the coating three

decades of wood and dung smoke had deposited on the spire. Still, to look at it,

the worst that could be said about the Temple of Heqt was that it was ugly,

filthy, and in a bad district – all of which were true of most other buildings

in Sanctuary, so far as Samlor could tell.

As the caravan-master swigged his mug of blue John, an acolyte emerged from the

main doorway of the temple. She waved her censer three times and chanted an

evening prayer to the disinterested street before retreating back inside.

The tavern’s doorway brightened as the tapster stepped out carrying a lantern.

‘Move, buddy, these’re for customers,’ he said to the classically handsome young

man sitting on the other bench. The youth stood but did not leave. The tapster

tugged the bench a foot into the doorway, stepped onto it, and hung the lantern

from a hook beneath the tavern’s sign. The angle of the lantern limned in shadow

a rampant unicorn, its penis engorged and as large as the horn on its head.

Instead of returning to the bench on which he had been sitting, the young man

sat down beside Samlor. ‘Not much to look at, is it?’ he said to the Cirdonian,

nodding towards the temple.

‘Nor popular, it seems,’ Samlor agreed. He eyed the local man carefully,

wondering how much information he could get from him. ‘Nobody’s gone in there

for an hour.’

‘Not surprising,’ the other man said with a nod. ‘They come mostly after dark,

you know. And you wouldn’t be able to see them from here anyway.’

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

entrance?’

‘Not just that,’ said the local man. ‘There’s a network of tunnels beneath the

whole area. They – the worshippers – enter from inns or shops or tenements from

blocks away. In Sanctuary, those who come to Heqt come secretly.’

Samlor’s left hand toyed with his religious medallion. ‘I’d heard that before,’

he said, ‘and I don’t figure it. Heqt brings the Spring rains … she’s the

genetrix, not only in Cirdon but everywhere she’s worshipped at all – except

Sanctuary. What happened here?’

‘You’re devout, I suppose?’ asked the younger man, eyeing the disk with the face

of Heqt.

‘Devout, devout,’ said Samlor with a grimace. ‘I run caravans, I’m not a priest.

Sure, maybe I spill a little drink to Heqt at meals … without her, there’d be

no world but desert, and I see enough desert already.’

The stranger’s skin was so pale that it looked yellow now that most of the light

was from the lamp above. ‘Well, they say there was a shrine to Dyareela here

before Alar tore it down to build his temple. There wouldn’t be anything left,

of course, except perhaps , the tunnels, and they may have been old when the

city was built ! on top of them. Have you heard there’s supposed to be a

demon kept in the lower crypts?’

Samlor nodded curtly. ‘I heard that.’

‘A hairy, long-tailed, fang-snapping demon,’ said the younger man with a bright

smile. ‘Pretty much of a joke nowadays, of course. People don’t really believe

in that sort of thing. Still, the first priest of Heqt here disappeared. … And

last year Alciros Foin went into the temple with ten hired bravos to find his

wife. Nobody saw the bullies again, but Foin was out on the street the next

morning. He was alive, even though every inch of skin had been flayed off him.’

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

‘Would you prefer to meet men like that rather than … a demon?’ asked the

local, smiling. The two men stared in silence at the temple. ‘Do you want a

drink?’ Samlor asked abruptly.

‘Not I,’ said the other. ‘You say that fellow was looking for his wife?’ the

Cirdonian pressed, his eyes on the shadow-hidden temple and not on his

companion.

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

Fertility rites. Some say the priests themselves have more to do with any

increase in conceptions than the rites do – but what man can say what women are

about?’

‘And the demon?’

‘Aiding the conceptions?’ said the local. Samlor had kept his face turned from

the other so that he would not have to see his smile, but the smile freighted

the words themselves stickily. ‘Perhaps, but some people will say anything.

That would be a night for the … suppliant, wouldn’t it?’

Samlor turned and smiled back, baring his teeth like a cat eyeing a throat vein.

‘Quite a night indeed,’ he said. ‘Are there any places known to have entrances

to – that?’ He gestured across the dark street. ‘Or is it just rumour? Perhaps

this inn itself?’

‘There’s a hostel west of here a furlong,’ said the youth. ‘Near the Beef Market

– the Man in Motley. They say there’s a network beneath like worm tunnels, not

really connected to each other. A man could enter one and walk for days without

ever seeing another soul.’

Samlor shrugged. He stood and whistled for attention, then tossed his empty mug

to the tapster behind the bar. ‘Just curiosity,’ he said to his companion. ‘I’ve

never been in Sanctuary before.’ Samlor stepped into the street, over a drain

which held something long dead. When he glanced back, he saw the local man still

seated empty-handed on the bench. In profile against the light, his face had the

perfection of an ancient cameo.

Samlor wore boots and he was long familiar with dark nights and bad footing, so

he did not bother to hire a linkman. When he passed a detachment of the Watch,

the Imperial officer in command stared at the dagger the Cirdonian now carried

bare in his hand. Still, Samlor looked to be no more than he was, a sturdy man

who would rather warn off robbers than kill them, but who was willing and able

to do either. I’ll have to buy another boot knife, Samlor thought; but for the

time he’d make do, make do…

The Man in Motley was a floor lower than the four-storey tenements around it.

The ground level was well lighted. Across the street behind a row of palings, a

slave gang worked under lamps scraping dung from the cobbles of the Beef Market.

Tomorrow their load would be dried in the sun for fuel. The public room of the

inn was occupied by a score of men, mostly drovers in leather and homespun. A

barmaid in her fifties was serving a corner booth. As Samlor entered, the host

thrust through the hangings behind the bar with a cask on his shoulder.

Samlor had sheathed his knife. He nodded to the brawny innkeeper and ducked

beneath the bar himself. ‘Hey!’ cried the host.

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

A stone staircase, lighted halfway by an oil lamp, led down into the cellars.

Samlor followed it, taking the lamp with him. The floor beneath the public room

was of dirt. A large trap, now closed and bolted, gave access to deliveries from

the street fronting the inn. The walls were lined with racked bottles, small

casks, and great forty-gallon fooders set on end. One of the fooders was of wood

so time-blackened as to look charred. Samlor rapped it with his knife hilt, then

compared the sound to the duller note of the tun beside it.

The stairs creaked as the host descended. He held a bung-starter in one heavy

fist. ‘Didn’t they tell you to go by the side?’ he rasped. ‘D’ye think I want

the name of running a devil’s brothel?’ He took another step. ‘By Ils and his

sisters, you’ll remember the next time!’

Samlor’s fingers moved on his knife hilt. He still held the point away from the

innkeeper. ‘We don’t have a quarrel,’ he said.

‘Let’s leave it at that.’

The host spat as he reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘ Sure, I know you hot

pants folderols. Well, when I’m done with you, you take my greetings to your

pandering psalm-singers and tell them there’ll be no more customers through

here!’

‘The priests share their privileges for a price?’ Samlor said in sudden

enlightenment. ‘But I don’t come for sex, friend.’

Whatever the tavern-keeper thought he understood, it frightened him as sight of

the dagger had not. He paused with the bung-starter half raised. First he

swallowed. Then, with a guttural sound of pure terror he flung the mallet into

the shadows and fled back up the stairs. Samlor frowned, shrugged, and turned

again to the fooder.

There was a catch disguised as a knot, obvious enough if one knew something of

the sort had to be there. Pressed, the side of the cask swung out to reveal a

dry, dark tunnel sloping gently downward. Samlor’s tongue touched his lips. It

was, after all, what he had been looking for. He picked up the lamp, now burned

well down. He stepped into the tunnel, closing the door behind him.

The passage twisted but did not branch. It was carven through dense, yellow

clay, shored at intervals with timbers too blackened for Samlor to identify the

wood. There were tiny skitterings which seemed to come from just beyond the

light. Samlor walked slowly enough not to lose the lampflame, steadily enough

not to lose his nerve. Despite the disgrace of his vocation, Samlor was a noble

of Cirdon; and there was no one else in his family to whom he could entrust this

responsibility.

There was a sound behind him. Without turning, Samlor lashed out with a boot.

His hobnails ground into something warm and squealing where his eyes saw nothing

at all. He paused for a moment to finger his medallion of Heqt, then continued.

The skittering preceded him at a greater distance.

When the tunnel entered a shelf of rock it broadened suddenly into a low

ceilinged, circular room. Samlor paused. He held his lamp out at arm’s length

and a little back of his line of sight so that the glare would not blind him.

The room was huge and empty, pierced by a score of doorways. Each but the one at

which Samlor stood and one other was closed by an iron grate.

Samlor touched but did not draw his double-edged dagger. ‘I’ll play your silly

game,’ he whispered. Taking short steps, he walked around the circumference of

the room and out the other open door. Another empty passage stretched beyond it.

Licking his lips again, Samlor followed the new tunnel.

The double clang of gratings behind him was not really unexpected. Samlor

waited, poised behind his knife point, but no one came down the stone boring

from either direction. No one and no thing. Samlor resumed walking, the tunnel

curving and perhaps descending slightly with each step. The stone was beginning

to vibrate, a tremor that was too faint to be music.

The passage broadened again. This time the room so formed was not empty. Samlor

spun to face what first seemed a man standing beside the doorway. The figure’s

only movement was the flicker of the lampflame over its metallic lustre. The

Cirdonian moved closer and prodded the empty torso. It was a racked suit of

mail, topped by a slot-fronted helmet.

Samlor scratched at a link of the armour, urged by a suspicion that he did not

consciously credit even as he attempted to prove it. The tightly-woven rings

appeared to be of verdigrised copper, but the edge of Samlor’s knife could not

even mar the apparent corrosion. ‘Blood and balls,’ the caravan-master swore

under his breath. –

He was touching one of the two famed suits of armour forged by the sorcerer

Hast-ra-kodi in the fire of a burning diamond. Forged with the help of two

demons, legend had it; and if that was open to doubt by a modern rationalist,

there could be no doubt at all that the indestructible armour had clothed heroes

for three of the five ages of the world.

Then, twelve hundred years ago, the twin brothers Harash and Hakkad had donned

the mail and marched against the wizard-prince Sterl. A storm overtook the

expedition in the mountains; and in the clear light of dawn, all had disappeared

– armour, brothers, and the three thousand men of their armament. Some said the

earth had gaped; others, that everything had been swallowed by the still-wider

jaws of airy monsters whose teeth flashed in the lightning and whose backs

arched high as the thunderheads. Whatever the cause, the armour had vanished in

that night. The reappearance of one of the suits in this underground room gave

Samlor his first tangible proof of the power that slunk through the skittering

passages.

From the opening across the room came the sound of metal scraping stone,

scraping and jingling. Samlor backed against the wall, sucking his cheeks

hollow.

Into the chamber of living rock stepped the other suit of Hast-ra-kodi’s armour.

This one fitted snugly about a man whom it utterly covered, creating a figure

which had nothing human in it but its shape. The unknown metal glowed green, and

the sword the figure bore free in one gauntleted hand blazed like a green torch.

‘Do you come to worship Dyareela?’ the figure asked in a voice rusty with

disuse.

Samlor set his lamp carefully on the flooring and sidled a pace away from it. ‘I

worship Heqt,’ he said, fingering his medallion with his left hand. ‘And some

others, perhaps. But not Dyareela.’

The figure laughed as it took a step forwards. ‘I worshipped Heqt, too. I was

her priest – until I came down into the tunnels to purge them of the evil they

held.’ The tittering laughter ricocheted about the stone walls like the sound

caged weasels make. ‘Dyareela put a penance on me in return for my life, my

life, my life … I wear this armour. That will be your penance too, Cirdonian:

put on the other suit.’

‘Let me pass, priest,’ Samlor said. His hands were trembling. He clutched them

together on his bosom. His fighting knife was sheathed.

‘No priest,’ the figure rasped, advancing.

‘Man! Let me pass!’

‘No man, not man,’ said the thing, its blade rising and a flame that dimmed the

oil lamp. ‘They say you keep your knife sharp, suppliant – but did gods forge

it? Can it shear the mesh of Hast-ra-kodi?’

Samlor palmed the bodkin-pointed push dagger from his wrist sheath and lunged,

his left foot thrusting against the wall of the chamber. Armour or no armour,

the priest was not a man of war. Samlor’s left hand blocked the sword arm while

his right slammed the edgeless dagger into the figure’s chest. The bodkin

slipped through the rings like thread through a needle’s eye. The figure’s

mailed fist caught the Cirdonian and tore the skin over his cheek. Samlor had

already twisted his steel clear. He punched it home again through armour, ribs,

and the spongy lungs within.

The figure staggered back. The sword clanged to the stone flooring. ‘What-?’ it

began. Something slopped and gurgled within the indestructible helmet. The

dagger hilt was a dark tumour against the glowing mail. The figure groped vainly

at the knob hilt with both hands. ‘What are you?’ it asked in a whisper. ‘You’re

not a man, not…’ Muscles and sinews loosened as the brain controlling them

starved for lack of oxygen. One knee buckled and the figure sprawled headlong on

the stone. The green glow seeped out of it like blood from a rag, staining the

flooring and dripping through it in turn.

‘If you’d been a man in your time,’ Samlor said harshly, ‘I wouldn’t have had to

be here now.’

He rolled the figure over to retrieve his bodkin from the bone in which it had

lodged. Haemorrhages from mouth and nose had smeared the front of the helmet. To

Samlor’s surprise, the suit of mail now gaped open down the front. It was ready

to be stripped off and worn by another. The body within was shrivelled, its skin

as white as that of the grubs which burrow beneath tree bark.

Samlor wiped his edgeless blade with thumb and forefinger. A tiny streak of

blood was the only sign that it had slipped between metal lines to do murder.

The Cirdonian left both suits of armour in the room. They had not preserved

other wearers. Wizard mail and its tricks were for those who could control it,

and Samlor was all too conscious of his own humanity.

The passageway bent, then formed a tee with a narrow corridor a hundred paces

long. The corridor was closed at either end by living rock. Its far wall was, by

contrast, artificial – basalt hexagons a little more than a foot in diameter

across the flats. There was no sign of a doorway. Samlor remembered the iron

grates clanging behind him what seemed a lifetime ago. He wiped his right palm

absently on his thigh.

The caravan-master walked slowly down and back the length of the corridor, from

end to end. The basalt plaques were indistinguishable one from another. They

rose ten feet to a bare ceiling which still bore the tool-marks of its cutting.

Samlor stared at the basalt from the head of the tee, aware that the oil in his

lamp was low and that he had no way of replenishing it.

After a moment he looked down at the floor. Struck by a sudden notion, he opened

his fly and urinated at the base of the wall. The stream splashed, then rolled

steadily to the.right down the invisible trench worn by decades of footsteps.

Thirty feet down the corridor the liquid stopped and pooled, slimed with patches

of dust that broke up the reflected lamplight.

Samlor examined with particular care the plaques just beyond the pool of urine.

The seeming music was louder here. He set his knife-point against one of the

hexagons and touched his forehead to the butt-cap. Clearly and triumphantly

rolled the notes of a hydraulic organ, played somewhere in the complex of

tunnels. Samlor sheathed the knife again and sighted along the stones

themselves, holding the light above his head. The polished surface of one waist

high plaque had been dulled ‘by sweat and wear. Samlor pressed it and the next

hexagon over hinged out of the wall.

The plaque which had lifted was only a hand’s breadth thick, but what the lamp

showed beyond it was a tunnel rather than a room: the remainder of the wall was

of natural basalt columns, twenty feet long and lying on their sides. To go

further, Samlor would have to crawl along a hole barely wide enough to pass his

shoulders; and the other end was capped as well.

Samlor had spent his working life under an open sky. He had thus far borne the

realization of the tons of rock above his head only by resolutely not thinking

about it. This rat-hole left him no choice … but he would go through it

anyway. A man had to be able to control his mind, or he wasn’t a man …

The Cirdonian set the lamp on the floor. It would gutter out in a few minutes

anyway. If he had tried to take it into the tunnel with him, it would almost

immediately have sucked all the life from the narrow column of air among the

hexagons. He drew his fighting knife and, holding both arms out in front of him,

wormed through the opening. His body blocked all but the least glimmer of the

light behind him, and the black basalt drank even that.

Progress was a matter of groping with boot toes and left palm, fighting the

friction of his shoulders and pelvis scraping the rock. Samlor took shallow

breaths, but even so before he had crawled his own length the air became stale.

It hugged him like a flabby blanket as he inched forwards in the darkness. The

music of the water organ was all about him.

The knife-point clinked on the far capstone. Samlor squirmed a little nearer,

prayed to Heqt, and thrust outwards with his left hand. The stone swung aside.

Breathable air flooded the Cirdonian with the rush of organ music.

Too relieved to be concerned at what besides air might wait beyond the opening,

Samlor struggled out. He caught himself on his knuckles and left palm, then

scrabbled to get his legs back under him. He had crawled through the straight

side of a semicircular room. Panels in the arched ceiling fifty feet above his

head lighted the room ochre. It was surely not dawn yet. Samlor realized he had

no idea of what might be the ultimate source of the clear, rich light.

The hydraulic organ must still be at a distance from this vaulted chamber, but

the music made the walls vibrate with its intensity. There was erotic love in

the higher notes, and from the lower register came fear as deep and black as

that which had settled in Samlor’s belly hours before. Lust and mindless hatred

lilted, rippling and bubbling through the sanctuary. Samlor’s fist squeezed his

dagger hilt in frustration. He was only the thickness of the edge short of

running amok in this empty room. Then he caught himself, breathed deeply, and

sheathed the weapon until he had a use for it.

An archway in the far wall suggested a door. Samlor began walking towards it,

aware of the scrapes the basalt had given him and the groin muscle he had pulled

while wrestling with the figure in armour. I’m not as young as I was, he

thought. Then he smiled in a way that meshed all too well with the pattern of

the music: after all, he was likely through with the problems of ageing very

soon.

The sanctuary was strewn with pillows and thick brocades. There was more

substantial furniture also. Its patterns were unusual but their function was

obvious in context. Samlor had crossed enough of the world to have seen most

things, but his personal tastes remained simple. He thought of Samlane; fury

lashed him again. This time instead of gripping the knife, he touched the

medallion of Heqt. He kicked at a rack of switches. They clattered into a

construct of ebony with silken tie-downs. Its three hollow levels could be

adjusted towards one another by the pulleys and levers at one end of it.

Well, it wasn’t for her, Samlor thought savagely. It was for the house, the

honour of the Lords Kodrix of Cirdon. And perhaps -perhaps for Heqt. He’d never

been a religious man, always figured it’d be best if the gods settled things

among themselves … but there were some things that any man-Well, that was a

lie. Not any man, just Samlor hil Samt for sure and probably no other fool so

damned on the whole continent. Well, so be it then; he was a fool and a fanatic,

and before the night finished he’d have spilled the blood of a so-called demon

or died trying.

Because the illumination was from above, Samlor had noticed the bas reliefs only

as patterns of shadows along the walls. The detail struck him as he approached

the archway. He stopped and looked carefully.

The carvings formed a series of panels running in bands across the polished

stone. The faces in each tableau were modelled with a precise detail that made

it likely they were portraits, though none of the personages were recognizable

to Samlor. He peered up the curving walls and saw the bands continuing to the

roof vaults. How and when they had been carved was beyond estimation; the

caravan-master was not even sure he could identify the stone, creamy and mottled

but seemingly much harder than marble.

Time was of indeterminable importance. Knowing that he might have only minutes

to live, Samlor began following some of the series of reliefs. One group of

carvings made clear the unguessed unity between the ‘sorcerer’ Hast-ra-kodi and

the ‘goddess’ Dyareela. Samlor stared at the conclusion of the pattern,

swallowing hard but not speaking. He was unutterably glad he had not donned

either suit of mail when he might have done so.

The panels reeked of bloodshed and repression. Kings and priests had stamped out

the worship of Dyareela a hundred times in a hundred places. The rites had

festered in the darkness, then burst out again – cancers metastasizing from the

black lump here in the vaults beneath Sanctuary. A shrine in the wasteland

before it was a city; and even as a city, a brawling, stinking, leaderless hive

where no one looked too hard for Evil’s heart since Evil’s limbs enveloped all.

Alar hil Aspar – a brash outsider, a reformer flushed with his triumph over

brigandage – had at last razed the fane of Dyareela here. Instead of salt, he

had sown the ruins with a temple to Heqt, the goddess of his upbringing. Fool

that he was. Alar had thought that ended it.

Just above the archway, set off from the courses around it by a border of ivy

leaves, was a cameo that caught Samlor’s eye as he returned sick and exhausted

by what he had been looking at. A file of women led by a piper cavorted through

the halls of a palace. The women carried small animals and icons of obviously

more than symbolic significance, but it was to the piper’s features that

Samlor’s gaze was drawn. The Cirdonian swore mildly and reached up to touch the

stone. It was smooth and cold to his fingertips.

So much fit. Enough, perhaps.

Samlor stepped through the double-hung doors closing the archway. The

crossbowman waiting beyond with his eyes on the staircase screamed and spun

around. The patterned screen that would have concealed the ambush from someone

descending the stairs was open to the archway – but judging from the bowman’s

panic, the mere sight of something approaching from the sanctuary would probably

have flushed him anyway.

Samlor had survived too many attacks ever to be wholly unprepared for another.

He lunged forwards, shouting to further disconcert the bowman. The screen was

toppling as the bowman jerked back from the fingers of Samlor’s left hand

thrusting for his eyes. The bowstring slapped and the quarrel spalled chips from

the archway before ricocheting sideways through a swinging door-panel. Samlor,

sprawled across his attacker’s lower legs, slashed at the other’s face with the

knife he had finally cleared. The bowman cried out again and parried with the

stock of his own weapon. Samlor’s edge thudded into the wood like an axe in a

firelog. Three of the bowman’s fingers flew out into the room.

Unaware of his maiming, the bowman tried to club Samlor with his weapon. It

slipped away from him. He saw the blood-spouting stumps of his left hand, the

index finger itself half severed. Fright had made the bowman scream; mutilation

now choked his voice with a rush of vomit.

Samlor squirmed forwards, pinning his attacker’s torso with his own. He wrestled

the crossbow out of the unresisting right hand. There was a pouch of iron

quarrels at the bowman’s belt, but Samlor ignored them: they were on the left

side and no longer a threat. The gagging man wore the scarlet and gold livery of

Regli’s household.

The Cirdonian glanced quickly around the room, seeing nothing but a helical

staircase reaching towards more lighted panels a hundred feet above. He waggled

his knife a foot from his captive’s eyes, then brought the point of it down on

the other’s nose. ‘You tried to kill me,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me why or you’re

missing more than some fingers only.’

‘Sabellia, Sabellia,’ the maimed retainer moaned. ‘You’ve ruined me now, you

bastard.’

Samlor flicked his blade sideways, knowing that the droplet of blood that sprang

out would force the other’s eyes to cross on it. They would fill with its red

proximity. ‘Talk to me, little man,’ the caravan-master said. ‘Why are you

here?’

The injured man swallowed bile. ‘My lord Regli,’ he said, closing his eyes to

avoid the blood and the dagger point. ‘He said you’d killed his wife. He sent us

all after you.’

Samlor laid the dagger point on the other’s left eyesocket. ‘How many?’ he

demanded.

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

‘The Watch?’

‘Oh, gods, get that away from my eye,’ the retainer moaned. ‘I almost shook-‘

Samlor raised the blade an inch. ‘Not the Watch,’ the other went on. ‘My lord

wants to handle this himself for the, the scandal.’

‘And where are the others?’ the point dipped, brushed an eyelash, and rose again

harmlessly.

The wounded man was rigid. He breathed through his mouth, quick gasps as if a

lungful of air would preserve him in the moment the knife-edge sawed through his

windpipe. ‘They all thought you’d run for Cirdon,’ he whispered. ‘You’d left

your cloak behind. I slipped it away, took it to a S’danzo I know. She’s a liar

like all of them, but sometimes not… I told her I’d pay her for the truth of

where I’d find you, and I’d pay her for nothing; but I’d take a lie out other

hide if six of my friends had to hold down her blacksmith buddy. She, she

described where I’d meet you. I recognized it, I’d taken the Lady Samlane-‘

‘Here?’ Samlor’s voice and his knife both trembled. Death slid closer to the

room than it had been since the first slash and scramble of the fight.

‘Lord, lord,’ the captive pleaded. ‘Only this far. I swear by my mother’s

bones!’

‘Go on, then.’ The knife did not move.

The other man swallowed. ‘That’s all. I waited here – I didn’t tell anybody.

Lord Regli put a thousand royals on your head… and… and the S’danzo said I’d

live through the meeting. Oh gods, the slut, the slut…’

Samlor smiled. ‘She hasn’t lied to you yet,’ he said. The smile was gone,

replaced with a bleakness as cruel as the face of a glacier. ‘Listen,’ he went

on, rising to one knee and pinning his prisoner by psychological dominance in

the stead of his body weight. ‘My sister asked me for a knife. I told her I’d

leave her one if she gave me a reason to.’

A spasm wracked the Cirdonian’s face. His prisoner winced at the trembling of

the dagger point. ‘She said the child wasn’t Regli’s,’ Samlor went on. ‘Well,

who ever thought it would be, the way she sniffed around? But she said a demon

had got it on her … and that bothered even her at the last. Being used, she

said. Being used. She’d tried to have it aborted after she thought about things

for a while, but a priest of Heqt was waiting with Regli in the shop where she’d

gone to buy the drugs. After that, she wasn’t without somebody watching her,

asleep or awake. The Temple of Heqt wanted the child born. Samlane said she’d

use the knife to end the child when they pulled it from her … and I believed

that, though I knew she’d be in no shape for knifings just after she’d whelped.

‘Seems she knew that too, but she was more determined than even I’d have given

her credit for being. She could give a lot of folks points for stubborn, my

sister.’

Samlor shook himself, then gripped a handful of the captive’s tunic. He ripped

the garment with his knife. ‘What are you doing?’ the retainer asked in concern.

‘Tying you up. Somebody’11 find you here in time. I’m going to do what I came

here for, and when it’s done I’ll leave Sanctuary. If I’ve got that option

still.’

Sweat was washing streaks in the blood-flecks on the captive’s face. ‘Sweet

goddess, don’t do that,’ he begged. ‘Not tied, not -that. You haven’t been here

when … others were here. You-‘ the injured man wiped his lips with his tongue.

He closed his eyes. ‘Kill me yourself, if you must,’ he said so softly it was

almost a matter for lip-reading to understand him. ‘Don’t leave me here.’

Samlor stood. His left hand was clenched, his right holding the dagger pointed

down at a slight angle. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered. Regli’s man obeyed, wide-eyed.

He braced his back against the wall, holding his left hand at shoulder height

but refusing to look at its ruin. The severed arteries had pinched off. Movement

had dislodged some of the scabs, but the blood only oozed instead of spurting as

it had initially. ‘Tell Regli that I’m mending my family’s honour in my way, as

my sister seems to have done in hers,’ Samlor said. ‘But don’t tell him where

you found me – or how. If you want to leave here now, you’ll swear that.’ ‘I

swear!’ the other babbled. ‘By anything you please!’ The caravan-master’s smile

flickered again. ‘Did you ever kill anyone, boy?’ he asked conversationally.

‘I was a coachman,’ the other said with a nervous frown. ‘I – I mean … no.’

‘Once I pulled a man apart with hot pincers,’ Samlor continued quietly. ‘He was

headman of a tribe that had taken our toll payment but still tried to cut out a

couple of horses from the back of our train. I slipped into the village that

night, jerked the chief out of his bed, and brought him back to the laager. In

the morning I fixed him as a display for the rest.’ The Cirdonian reached

forwards and wiped his dagger clean on the sleeve of the other man’s tunic.

‘Don’t go back on your word to me, friend,’ he said.

Regli’s man edged to the helical staircase. As he mounted each of the first

dozen steps, he looked back over his shoulder at the Cirdonian. When the pursuit

or thrown knife did not come as he had feared or expected, the retainer ran up

the next twenty steps without pausing. He looked down from that elevation and

said, ‘One thing, master.’ .

‘Say it,’ responded Samlor.

‘They opened the Lady Samlane to give the child separate burial.’

‘Yes?’

‘And it didn’t look to be demon spawn, as you say,’ Regli’s man called. ‘It was

a perfect little boy. Except that your knife was through its skull.’

Samlor began to climb the steps, ignoring the scrabbling slippers of the man

above him on the twisting staircase. The door at the top thudded, leaving

nothing of the hapless ambusher but splotches of his blood on the railing.

Should have stuck to his horses, Samlor thought. He laughed aloud, well aware

that the epitaph probably applied to himself as well. Still, he had a better

notion than that poor fool of a coachman of what he was getting into … though

the gods all knew how slight were his chances of getting out of it alive. If the

fellow he was looking for was a real magician, rather than someone like Samlor

himself who had learned a few spells while knocking around the world, it was

over for sure.

The door at the top of the stairs pivoted outward. Samlor tested it with a

fingertip, then paused to steady his heart and breathing. As he stood there, his

left hand sought the toad-faced medallion.

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

– ready.

He pushed the door open.

On the other side, the secret opening was only a wall panel. Its frescoes were

geometric and in no way different from those of the rest of the temple hallway.

To the left, the hall led to an outside door heavily banded with iron. From his

livery and the mutilation of his outflung left hand, the coachman could be

recognized where he lay. The rest of the retainer appeared to have been razored

into gobbets of flesh and bone, no other one of them as large as what remained

of the left hand. Under the circumstances, Samlor had no sympathy to waste on

the corpse.

The Cirdonian sighed and turned to the right, stepping through the hangings of

brass beads into the sanctuary of Heqt. The figure he expected was waiting for

him.

Soft, grey dawnlight crept through hidden slits in the dome. Mirrors had been

designed to light the grinning, gilded toad-face of Heqt at the top of the dome

beneath the spire. Instead, the light was directed downwards onto the figure on

the floral mosaic in the centre of the great room. The hair of the waiting man

glowed like burning wire. ‘Did the night keep you well, friend?’ Samlor called

as he stepped forwards.

‘Well,’ agreed the other with a nod. There was no sign of the regular priests

and acolytes of Heqt. The room brightened as if the light fed on the beauty of

the waiting man. ‘As I see she kept you, Champion of Heqt.’ –

‘No champion,’ Samlor said, taking another step as casual as the long knife

dangling from his right hand. ‘Just a man looking for the demon who caused his

sister’s death. I didn’t have to look any farther than the bench across the

street last night, did I?’

The other’s voice was a rich tenor. It had a vibrancy that had been missing when

he and Samlor had talked of Heqt and Dyareela the night before. ‘Heqt keeps

sending her champions, and I … I deal with them. You met the first of them,

the priest?’

‘I came looking for a demon,’ the Cirdonian said, walking very slowly, ‘and all

it was was a poor madman who had convinced himself that he was a god.’

‘I am Dyareela.’

‘You’re a man who saw an old carving down below that looked like him,’ Samlor

said. ‘That worked on your mind, and you worked on other people’s minds. … My

sister, now, she was convinced her child would look like a man but be a demon.

She killed it in her womb. The only way that she’d have been able to kill it,

because they’d never have let her near it, Regli’s heir, and her having tried

abortion. But such a waste, because it was just a child, only a madman’s child.’

The sun-crowned man gripped the throat of his white tunic and ripped downwards

with unexpected strength. ‘I am Dyareela,’ it said. Its right breast was

pendulous, noticeably larger than the left. The male genitals were of normal

size, flaccid, hiding the vulva that must lie behind them. ‘The one there,’ it

said, gesturing towards the wall beyond which the coachman lay, ‘came to my fane

to shed blood without my leave.’ The naked figure giggled. ‘Perhaps I’ll have

you wash in his blood. Champion,’ it said. ‘Perhaps that will be the start of

your penance.’

‘A mad little hermaphrodite who knows a spell or two,’ Samlor said. ‘But

there’ll be no penance for any again from you, little one. You’re fey, and I

know a spell for your sort. She wasn’t much, but I’ll have your heart for what

you led my sister to.’

‘Will you conjure me by Heqt, then. Champion?’ asked the other with its arms

spread in welcome and laughter in its liquid voice. ‘Her temple is my temple,

her servants are my servants … the blood other champions is mine for a

sacrifice!’

Samlor was twenty feet away, a full turn and half a turn. He clutched his

medallion left-handed, hoping it would give him enough time to complete his

spell. ‘Do I look like a priest to talk about gods?’ he said. ‘Watch my dagger,

madman.’

The other smiled, waiting as Samlor cocked the heavy blade. It caught a stray

beam of sunlight. The double edge flashed black dawn.

‘By the Earth that bore this,’

Samlor cried,

‘and the Mind that gave it shape;

By the rown of this hilt and the silver wire that laps it;

By the cold iron of this blade

and by the white-hot flames it flowed from;

By the blood it has drunk and the souls it has eaten

– know thy hour’

Samlor hurled the dagger. It glinted as it rotated. The blade was point-first

and a hand’s breadth from the smiling face when it exploded in a flash and a

thunderclap that shook the city. The concussion hurled Samlor backwards,

bleeding from the nose and ears. The air was dense with flecks of paint and

plaster from the frescoed ceiling. Dyareela stood with the same smile, arms

lifting in triumph, lips opening further in throaty laughter. ‘Mine for a

sacrifice!’

A webbing of tiny cracks was spreading from the centre of the dome high above.

Samlor staggered to his feet, choking on dust and knowing that if he was lucky

he was about to die.

Heqt’s gilded bronze head, backed by the limestone spire, plunged down from the

ceiling. It struck Dyareela’s upturned face like a two-hundred-ton crossbow

bolt. The floor beneath disintegrated. The limestone column scarcely slowed,

hurtling out of sight as the earth itself shuddered to the impact.

Samlor lost his footing in the remains of Regli’s coachman. An earth-shock

pitched him forwards against the door panel. It was unlocked. The Cirdonian

lunged out into the street as the shattered dome followed its pinnacle into a

cavern that gaped with a sound like the lowest note of an organ played by gods.

Samlor sprawled in the muddy street. All around him men were shouting and

pointing. The Cirdonian rolled onto his back and looked at the collapsing

temple.

Above the ruins rose a pall of shining dust. More than imagination shaped the

cloud into the head of a toad.

THE FRUIT OF ENLIBAR

by Lynn Abbey

The hillside groves of orange trees were all that remained of the legendary

glory of Enlibar. Humbled descendants of the rulers of an empire dwarfing Ilsig

or Ranke eked out their livings among the gnarled, ancient trees. They wrapped

each unripe fruit in leaves for the long caravan journey and wrapped each

harvest in a fresh retelling of their legends. By shrewd storytelling these once

proud families survived, second only to the S’danzo in their ability to create

mystery, but like the S’danzo crones they flavoured their legends with truth and

kept the sceptics at bay.

The oranges of Enlibar made their way to Sanctuary once a year. When the fist

sized fruits were nearly ripe Haakon, the sweetmeat vendor of the bazaar, would

fill his cart and hawk oranges in the town as well as in the stalls of the

bazaar. During i those few days he would make enough money to buy expensive |

trinkets for his wife and children, another year’s lodgings for his mistress,

and have enough gold left to take to Gonfred, the only honest goldsmith in town.

The value of each orange was such that Haakon would ignore the unwritten code of

the bazaar and reserve the best of his limited supply for his patrons at the

Governor’s Palace. It had happened, however, that two of the precious fruits had

been bruised. Haakon decided not to sell that pair at all but to share them with

his friends the bazaar-smith, Dubro, and his youngwife, the half-S’danzo Illyra.

He scored the peel deftly with an inlaid silver tool meant especially for this

one purpose. When his fingers moved away the pebbly rind fell back from the

deep-coloured pulp and Illyra gasped with delight. She took one of the pulp

sections and drizzled the juice onto the back of her hand, then lapped it up

with the tip of her tongue: the mannerly way to savour the delicate flavour of

the blood-red juice.

‘These are the best; better than last year’s,’ she exclaimed with a smile. ‘You

say that every year, Illyra. Time dulls your memory; the taste brings it back.’

Haakon sucked the juice off his hand with less delicacy: his lips showed the

Stain of Enlibar. ‘And, speaking of time dulling your memory – Dubro, do you

recall, about fifteen years back, a death-pale boy with straw hair and wild eyes

running about the town?’

Haakon watched as Dubro closed his eyes and sank back in thought. The smith

would have been a raw youth then himself, but he had always been slow,

deliberate, and utterly reliable in his judgements. Illyra would have been a

skirt-clinging toddler that long ago so Haakon did not think to ask her, nor to

glance her way while he awaited Dubro’s reply. Had he done so he would have seen

her tremble and a blood-red drop of juice disappear into the fine dust beneath

her chair.

‘Yes,’ Dubro said without opening his eyes, ‘I remember one as that: quiet, pale

… nasty. Lived a few years with the garrison, then disappeared.’

‘Would you know him again after all this time?’

‘Nay. He was that sort of lad who looks childish until he becomes a man, then

one never sees the child in his face again.’

‘Would you reckon “Walegrin” to be his name?* Ignored, beside them, Illyra bit

down on her tongue and stifled sudden panic before it became apparent.

‘It might be … nay, I could not be sure. I doubt as I ever spoke to the lad by

name.’ Haakon shrugged as if the questions had been idle conversation. Illyra

ate her remaining share of the oranges, then went into the ramshackle stall

where she lit three cones of incense before returning to the men with a ewer of

water.

‘Illyra, I’ve just asked your husband if he’d come with me to the Palace. I’ve

got two sacks of oranges to deliver for the Prince and another set of arms would

make the work easier. But he says he won’t leave you here alone.’

Illyra hesitated. The memories Haakon had aroused were still fresh in her mind,

but all that had been fifteen years ago, as he had said. She stared at the

clouded-over sky.

‘No, there’ll be no problem. It may rain today arid, anyway, you’ve taken

everyone’s money this week with your oranges,’ she said with forced brightness.

‘Well then, you see, Dubro – there’s no problem. Bank the fires and we’ll be

off. I’ll have you back sweating again before the first raindrops fall.’

Illyra watched them leave. Fear filled the forge, fear left over from a dimly

remembered childhood. Visions she had shared with no one, not even Dubro.

Visions not even the S’danzo gifts could resolve into truth or illusion. She

caught up her curly black hair with a set of combs and went back inside.

When the bed was concealed under layers of gaudy, bright cloth and her youth

under layers of kohl, Illyra was ready to greet the townsfolk. She had not

exaggerated her complaints about the oranges. It was just as well that Haakon’s

supply was diminishing. For two days now she had had no querents until late in

the day. Lonely and bored she watched the incense smoke curl into the darkness

of the room, losing herself in its endless variations.

‘Illyra?’

A man drew back the heavy cloth curtain. Illyra did not recognize his voice. His

silhouette revealed only that he was as tall as Dubro, though not as broad.

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

She froze. Any querent might have cause to resent a S’danzo prophecy, regardless

of its truth, and plot revenge against the seeress. Only recently she had been

threatened by a man in the red-and-gold livery of the Palace. Her hand slid

under the folds of the tablecloth and eased a tiny dagger loose from a sheath

nailed to the table leg. –

‘What do you want?’ She held her voice steady; greeting a paying querent rather

than a thug.

‘To talk with you. May I come in?’ He paused, waiting for a reply and when there

was none continued, ‘You seem unduly suspicious, S’danzo. Do you have many

enemies here. Little Sister?’

He stepped into the room and let the cloth fall behind him. Illyra’s dagger slid

silently from her hand into the folds of her skirts.

‘Walegrin.’

‘You remember so quickly? Then you did inherit her gift?’

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

returned to Sanctuary.’

‘Three weeks past. It has not changed at all except, perhaps, for the worse. I

had hoped to complete my business without disturbing you but I have encountered

complications, and I doubt any of the other S’danzo would help me.’

‘The S’danzo will never forget.’

Walegrin eased his bulk into one of Dubro’s chairs. Light from the candelabra

fell on his face. He endured the exposure, though as Dubro had guessed, there

was no trace of youth left in his features. He was tall and pale, lean in the

way of powerful men whose gentler tissues have boiled away. His hair was sun

bleached to brittle straw, confined by four thick braids and a bronze circlet.

Even for Sanctuary he cut an exotic, barbarian figure.

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

her.

‘You have become very much like him,’ she answered slowly. ‘I think not, ‘Lyra.

My tastes, anyway, do not run as our father’s did – so put aside your fears on

that account. I’ve come for your help. True S’danzo help, as your mother could

have given me. I could pay you in gold, but I have other items which might tempt

you more.’ He reached under his bronze-studded leather kilt to produce a suede

pouch of some weight which he set, unopened, on the table. She began to open it

when he leaned forwards and grasped her wrist tightly.

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

His voice carried Illyra back those fifteen years sweeping the doubts from her

memories. ‘I was a child then, Walegrin. A little child, no more than four.

Where could I have run to?’

He released her wrist and sat back in the chair. Illyra emptied the pouch onto

her table. She recognized only a few of the beads and bracelets, but enough to

realize that she gazed upon all of her mother’s jewellery. She picked up a

string of blue glass beads strung on a creamy braided silk.

‘These have been restrung,’ she said simply. Walegrin nodded. ‘Blood rots the

silk and stinks to the gods. I had no choice. All the others are as they were.’

Illyra let the beads fall back into the pile. He had known how to tempt her. The

entire heap was not worth a single gold piece, but no storehouse of gold could

have been more valuable to her.

‘Well, then, what do you want from me?’

He pushed the trinkets aside and from another pouch produced a palm-sized

pottery shard which he placed gently on the velvet.

‘Tell me everything about that: where the rest of the tablet is; how it came to

be broken; what the symbols mean – everything!’

There was nothing in the jagged fragment that justified the change that came

over Walegrin as he spoke of it. Illyra saw a piece of common orange pottery

with a crowded black design set under the glaze; the sort of ware that could be

found in any household of the Empire. Even with her S’danzo gifts focused on the

shard it remained stubbornly common. Illyra looked at Wale-grin’s icy green

eyes, his thought-protruded brows, the set of his chin atop the studded greave

on his forearm, and thought better of telling him what she actually saw.

‘Its secrets are locked deeply within it. To a casual glance its disguises are

perfect. Only prolonged examination will draw its secrets out.’ She placed the

shard back on the table.

‘How long?’

‘It would be hard to say. The gift is strengthened by symbolic cycles. It may

take until the cycle of the shard coincides…’

‘I know the S’danzo! I was there with you and your mother -don’t play bazaar

games with me. Little Sister. I know too much.’

Illyra sat back on her bench. The dagger in her skirts clunked to the floor.

Walegrin bent over to pick it up. He turned it over in his hands and without

warning thrust it through the velvet into the table. Then, with his palm against

the smooth of the blade, he bent it back until the hilt touched the table. When

he removed his hand the knife remained bent.

‘Cheap steel. Modern stuff; death to the one who relies on it,’ he explained,

drawing a sleek knife from within the greave. He placed the dark-steel blade

with the beads and bracelets. ‘Now, tell me about my pottery.’

‘No bazaar-games. If I didn’t know from looking at you, I’d say it was a broken

piece of ‘cotta. You’ve had it a long time. It shows nothing but its

associations with you. I believe it is more than that, or you wouldn’t be here.

You know about the S’danzo and what you call “bazaar-games”, but it’s true

right now I see nothing; later I might. There are ways to strengthen the vision

– I’ll try them.’

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

‘Only my cards,’ she answered, flustered by his gesture. ‘Get them!’ he

ordered without picking up the coin. She removed the worn deck from the depths

of her blouse and set the shard atop them while she lit more candles and

incense. She allowed Walegrin to cut the pack into three piles, then turned

over the topmost card of each pile.

Three of Flames: a tunnel running from light to darkness with three candle

sconces along the way.

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

Seven of Ore: red clay; the potter with his wheel and kiln. Illyra stared at the

images, losing herself in them without finding harmony or direction. The Flame

card was pivotal, but the array would not yield its perspective to her; the

Forest, symbolic of the wisdom of the ages, seemed unlikely as either her

brother’s goal or origin; and the Seven must mean more than was obvious. But,

was the Ore-card appearing in its creativity aspect? Or was red clay the omen of

bloodletting, as was so often true when the card appeared in a Sanctuary-cast

array?

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

this thing.’

‘I’ll come again after sundown – that would be a better time, wouldn’t it? I’ve

no garrison duties until after sunrise tomorrow.’

‘For the cards, yes, of course, but Dubro will have banked the forge for the

night by then, and I do not want to involve him in this.’ Walegrin nodded

without argument. ‘I understand. I’ll come by at midnight. He should be long

asleep by then, unless you keep him awake.’ Illyra sensed it would be useless to

argue. She watched silently as he swept the pile of baubles, the knife, and the

shard into one pouch, wincing slightly as he dribbled the last beads from her

sight.

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

Illyra nodded. Walegrin had spent many years around her mother learning many of

the S’danzo disciplines and rousing his father’s explosive jealousy. The leather

webbing of his kilt creaked as he stood up. The moment for farewell came and

passed. He left the stall in silence.

A path cleared when Walegrin strode through a crowd. He noticed it here, in this

bazaar where his memories were of scrambling through the aisles, taunted,

cursed, fighting, and thieving. In any other place he accepted the deference

except here, which had once been his home for a while.

One of the few men in the throng who could match his height, a dark man in a

smith’s apron, blocked his way a moment. Walegrin studied him obliquely and

guessed he was Dubro. He had seen the smith’s short aquiline companion several

times in other roles about the town without learning the man’s true name or

calling; they each glanced to one side to avoid a chance meeting.

At the entrance to the bazaar, a tumble-down set of columns still showing traces

of the Ilsig kings who had them built, a man crept out of the shadows and fell

in step beside Walegrin. Though this second had the manner and dress of the

city-born, his face was like Walegrin’s: lean, hard, and parched.

‘What have you learned, Thrusher?’ Walegrin began, without looking down.

‘That man Downwind who claimed to read such things…’

‘Yes?’

‘Runo went down to meet with him, as you were told. When he did not return for

duty this morning Malm and I went to look for him. We found them both … and

these.’ He handed his captain two small copper coins.

Walegrin turned them over in his palm, then threw them far ‘ into the harbour.

‘I’ll take care of this myself. Tell the others we will have a visitor at the

garrison this evening – a woman.’

‘Yes, captain,’ Thrusher responded, a surprised grin making its way across his

jaw. ‘Shall I send the men away?’

‘No, set them as guards. Nothing is going well. Each time we have set a

rendezvous something has gone wrong. At first it was petty nuisance, now Runo is

dead. I will not take chances in this city above all others. And, Thrusher…’

Walegrin caught his man by the elbow, ‘Thrusher, this woman is S’danzo, my half

sister. See that the men understand this.’

‘They will understand, we all have families somewhere.’

Walegrin grimaced and Thrusher understood that his commander had not suddenly

weakened to admit family concerns.

‘We have need of the S’danzo? Surely there are more reliable seers in Sanctuary

than scrounging the aisles of the bazaar. Our gold is good and nearly

limitless.’ Thrusher, like many men in the Ranken Empire, considered the S’danzo

best suited to resolving love triangles among house-servants.

‘We have need of this one.’

Thrusher nodded and oozed back into the shadows as deftly as he had emerged.

Walegrin waited until he was alone on the filthy streets before changing

direction and striding, shoulders set and fists balled, into the tangled streets

of the Maze.

The whores of the Maze were a special breed unwelcomed in the great pleasure

houses beyond the city walls. Their embrace included a poison dagger and their

nightly fee was all the wealth that could be removed from a man’s person. A knot

of these women clung to the doorway of the Vulgar Unicorn, the Maze’s

approximation to Town Hall, but they stepped aside meekly when Walegrin

approached. Survival in the Maze depended upon careful selection of the target.

An aura of dark foul air enveloped Walegrin as he stepped down into the sunken

room. A moment’s quiet passed over the other guests, as it always did when

someone entered. A Hell Hound, personal puritan of the prince, could shut down

conversation for the duration of his visit, but a garrison officer, even

Walegrin, was assumed to have legitimate business and was ignored with the same

slit-eyed wariness the regulars accorded each other.

The itinerant storyteller, Hakiem, occupied the bench Walegrin preferred. The

heavy-lidded little man was wilier than most suspected. Clutching his leather

mug of small ale tenderly, he had selected one of the few locations in the room

that provided a good view of all the exits, public and private. Walegrin stepped

forwards, intending to intimidate the weasel from his perch, but thought better

of the move. His affairs in the Maze demanded discretion, not reckless bullying.

From a lesser location he signalled the bartender. No honest wench would work

the Unicorn so Buboe himself brought the foaming mug, then returned a moment

later with one of the Enii-bar oranges he had arranged behind the counter.

Walegrin broke the peel with his thumbnail; the red juice ran through the ridges

of the peel forming patterns not unlike those on his pottery shard.

A one-armed beggar with a scarred face and a pendulant, cloudy eye sidled into

the Unicorn, careful to avoid the disapproving glance of Buboe. As the ragged

creature moved from table to table collecting copper pittance from the disturbed

patrons, Walegrin noted the tightly wound tunic under his rags and knew the left

arm was as good as the one that was snapping up the coins. Likewise, the scar

was a self-induced disfigurement and the yellow rheum running down his cheek the

result of seeds placed under his eyelids. The beggar announced his arrival at

Walegrin’s table with a tortured wheeze. Without looking up Walegrin tossed him

a silver coin. He had run with the beggars himself and seen their cunning deceit

become crippling reality many times too often.

Buboe split the last accessible louse in his copious beard between his grimy

fingernails, looked up, and noticed the beggar, whom he threw into the street.

He shuffled a few more mugs of beer to his patrons, then returned to the never

ending task of chasing lice.

The door opened again, admitting another who, like Walegrin, was in the Maze on

business. Walegrin drew a small circle in the air with a finger and the newcomer

hastened to his table.

‘My man was slain last night by following your suggestions.’ Walegrin stared

directly into the newcomer’s eyes as he spoke.

‘So I’ve heard, and the Enlibrite potter as well. I’ve rushed over here to

assure you that it was not my doing (though I knew you would suspect me). Why,

Walegrin, even if I did want to double-cross you (and I doubly assure you that

such thoughts never go through my mind) I’d hardly have killed the Enlibrite as

well, would I?’

Walegrin grunted. Who was to say what a man of Sanctuary might do to achieve his

goals? But the information broker was likely to be telling the truth. He had an

air of distracted indignation about him that a liar would not think to affect.

And if he were truthful then, like as not, Runo had been the victim of

coincidental outrage. The coins showed that robbery was not the motive. Perhaps

the potter had enemies. Walegrin reminded himself to enter the double slaying in

the garrison roster where, in due course, it might be investigated when the

dozens preceding it had been disposed of.

‘Still, once again, I have received no information. I will still make no

payment.’ Walegrin casually spun the beer mug from one hand to the other as he

spoke, concealing the import of his conversation from prying eyes.

‘There’re others who can bait your bear: Markmor, Enas Yorl, even Lythande, if

the price is right. Think of this only as a delay, my friend, not failure.’

‘No! The omens here grow bad. Three times you’ve tried and failed to get me what

I require. I conclude my business with you.’ The information broker survived by

knowing when to cut his losses. Nodding politely, he left Walegrin without a

word and left the Unicorn before Buboe had thought to get his order.

Walegrin leaned back on his stool, hands clenched behind his head, his eyes

alert for movement but his thoughts wandering. The death of Runo had affected

him deeply,, not because the man was a good soldier and long-time companion,

though he had been both, but because the death had demonstrated the enduring

power of the S’danzo curse on his family. Fifteen years before, the S’danzo

community had decreed that all things meaningful to his father should be taken

away or destroyed while the man looked helplessly on. For good measure the

crones had extended the curse for five generations. Walegrin was the first. He

dreaded that day when his path crossed with some forgotten child of his own who

would bear him no better will than he bore his own ignominious sire.

It had been sheer madness to return to Sanctuary, to the origin of the curse,

despite the assurances of the Purple Mage’s protection. Madness! The S’danzo

felt him coming. The Purple Mage, the one person Walegrin trusted to unravel the

spell, had disappeared long before he and his men arrived in town. And now the

Enlibrite potter and Runo were dead by some unknown hand. How much longer could

he afford to stay? True, there were many magicians here, and any could be

bought, but they all had their petty loyalties. If they could reconstruct the

shard’s inscription, they certainly could not be trusted to keep quiet about it.

If Illyra did not provide the answers at midnight, Walegrin resolved to take his

men somewhere far from this accursed town.

He would have continued his litany of dislike had he not been brought to

alertness by the distress call of a mountain hawk: a bird never seen or heard

within the walls of Sanctuary. The call was the alarm signal amongst his men. He

left a few coins on the table and departed the Unicorn without undue notice.

A second call led him down a passageway too narrow to be called an alley, much

less a street. Moving with stealth and caution, Walegrin eased around forgotten

doorways suspecting ambush with every step. Only a third call and the appearance

of a familiar face in the shadows quickened his pace.

‘Malm, what is it?’ he asked, stepping over some soft, stinking mass without

looking down.

‘See for yourself.’

A weak shaft of light made its way through the jutting roofs of a half-dozen

buildings to illuminate a pair of corpses. One was the information broker who

had just left Walegrin’s company, a makeshift knife still protruding from his

neck. The other was the beggar to whom he’d given the silver coin. The latter

bore the cleaner mark of the accomplished killer.

‘I see,’ Walegrin replied dully.

‘The ragged one, he followed the other away from the Unicorn. I’d been following

the broker since we found out about Runo, so I began to follow them both. When

the broker caught on that he was being followed, he lit up this cul-de-sac – by

mistake, I’d guess – and the beggar followed him. I found the broker like this

and killed the beggar myself.’

Two more deaths for the curse. Walegrin stared at the bodies, then praised

Malm’s diligence and sent him back to the garrison barracks to prepare for

Illyra’s visit. He left the corpses in the cul-de-sac where they might never be

found. This pair he would not enter into the garrison roster.

Walegrin paced the length of the town, providing the inhibiting impression of a

garrison officer actually on duty, though if a murder had occurred at his feet

he would not have noticed. Twice he passed the entrance of the bazaar, twice

hesitated, and twice continued on his way. Sunset found him by the Promise of

Heaven as the priests withdrew into their temples and the Red Lanterns women

made their first promenade. By full darkness he was on the Wideway, hungry and

close in spirit to the fifteen-year-old who had swum the harbour and stowed away

in the hold of an outbound ship one horrible night many years ago.

In the moonless night that memory returned to him with palpable force. In the

grip of his depravities and obsessed by the imagined infidelity of his mistress,

his father had tortured and killed her. Walegrin could recall that much. After

the murder he had run from the barracks to the harbour. He knew the end of the

story from campfire tales after he’d joined the army himself. Unsatisfied with

murder, his father had dismembered her body, throwing the head and organs into

the palace sewer-stream and the rest into the garrison stewpot.

Sanctuary boasted no criers to shout out the hours of the night. When there was

a moon its progress gave approximate time, but in its absence night was an

eternity, and midnight that moment when your joints grew stiff from sitting on

the damp stone pilings of the Wideway and dark memories threatened the periphery

of your vision. Walegrin bought a torch from the cadaverous watchman at the

charnel house and entered the quiet bazaar.

Illyra emerged from the blacksmith’s stall the second time Walegrin used the

mountain hawk cry. She had concealed herself in a dark cloak which she held

tightly around herself. Her movements betrayed her fears. Walegrin led the way

in hurried silence. He took her arm at the elbow when they came into sight of

the barracks. She hesitated, then continued without his urging.

Walegrin’s men were nowhere to be seen in the common room that separated the

men’s and officers’ quarters. Illyra paced the room like a caged animal,

remembering.

‘You’ll need a table, candles, and what else?’ he asked, eager to be on with the

night’s activity and suddenly mindful that he had brought her back to this

place.

‘It’s so much smaller than I remember it,’ she said, then added, ‘just the table

and candles, I’ve brought the rest myself.’

Walegrin pulled a table closer to the hearth. While he gathered up candles she

unfastened her cloak and placed it over the table. She wore sombre woollens

appropriate for a modest woman from the better part of town instead of the gaudy

layers of the S’danzo costume. Walegrin wondered from whom she had borrowed them

and if she had told her husband after all. It mattered little so long as she

could pierce the spell over his shard.

‘Shall I leave you alone?’ Walegrin asked after removing the pottery fragment

from the pouch and placing it on the table.

‘No, I don’t want to be alone in here.’ Illyra shuffled her fortune cards,

dropping several in her nervousness, then set the deck back on the table and

asked, ‘Is it too much to ask for some wine and information about what I’m

supposed to be looking for?’ A trace of the bazaar scrappiness returned to her

voice and she was less lost within the room.

‘My man Thrusher wanted to lay in an orgy feast when I told him I’d require the

common room tonight. Then I told him I only wanted the men out – but it’s a poor

barracks without a flask in it, poorer than Sanctuary.’ He found a half-filled

wineskin behind a sideboard, squirted some into his mouth, and swallowed with a

rare smile. ‘Not the best vintage, but passable. You’ll have to drink from the

skin…’ He handed it to her.

‘I drank from a skin before I’d seen a cup. It’s a trick you never forget.’

Illyra took the wineskin from him and caught a mouthful of wine without

splattering a drop. ‘Now, Walegrin,’ she began, emboldened by the musty wine,

‘Walegrin, I can’t get either your pottery nor Haakon’s oranges out of my mind.

What is the connection?’

‘If this Haakon peddles Enlibar oranges, then it’s simple. I got the shard in

Enlibar, in the ruins of the armoury there. We searched three days and found

only this. But, if anyone’s got a greater piece he knows not what he has, else

there’d be an army massing somewhere that’d have the Empire quaking.’

Illyra’s eyes widened. ‘All from a piece of cheap red clay?’

‘Not the pottery, my dear sister. The armourer put the formula for Enlibar steel

on a clay tablet and had a wizard spell the glaze to conceal it. I sensed the

spell, but I cannot break it.’

‘But this might only be a small piece.’ Illyra ran her finger along the

fragment’s worn edges. ‘Maybe not even a vital part.’

‘Your S’danzo gifts are heedless of time, are they not?’

‘Well, yes – the past and future are clear to us.’

‘Then you should be able to scry back to when the glaze was applied and glimpse

the entire tablet.’

Illyra shifted uneasily. ‘Yes, perhaps, I could glimpse it but, Walegrin, I

don’t “read”,’ she shrugged and grinned with the wine.

Walegrin frowned, considering the near-perfect irony of the curse’s functioning.

No doubt Illyra could, would, see the complete tablet and be unable to tell him

what was on it.

‘Your cards, they have writing on them.’ He pointed at the runic verses hoping

that she could read runes but not ordinary script.

She shrugged again. ‘I use the pictures and my gifts. My cards are not S’danzo

work.’ She seemed to apologize for the deck’s origin, turning the pile face down

to hide the offensive ink trails. ‘S’danzo are artists. We paint pictures in

fate.’ She squirted herself another mouthful of wine.

‘Pictures?’ Walegrin asked. ‘Would you see a clear enough image of the tablet to

draw its double here on the table?’

‘I could try. I’ve never done anything like that before.’

‘Then try now,’ Walegrin suggested, taking the wineskin away from her.

Illyra placed the shard atop the deck, then brought both to her forehead.

Exhaling until she felt the world grow dim, the wine-euphoria left her and she

became S’danzo exercising that capricious gift the primordial gods had settled

upon her kind. She exhaled again and forgot that she was in her mother’s death

chamber. Eyes closed, she lowered the deck and pottery to the table and drew

three cards, face up.

Seven of Ore: again, red clay; the potter with his wheel and kiln.

Quicksilver: a molten waterfall; the alchemic ancestor of all ores: the ace-card

of the suit of Ores.

Two of Ore: steel; war-card; death-card with masked men fighting. She spread her

fingers to touch each card and lost herself in search of the Enlibrite forge.

The armourer was old, his hand shook as he moved the brush over the unfired

tablet. An equally ancient wizard fretted beside him, glancing fearfully over

her shoulder beyond the limits of Illyra’s S’danzo gifts. Their clothing was

like nothing Illyra had seen in Sanctuary. The vision wavered when she thought

of the present and she dutifully returned to the armoury. Illyra mimicked the

armourer’s motions as he covered the tablet with rows of dense, incomprehensible

symbols. The wizard took the tablet and sprinkled fine sand over it. He chanted

a sing-song language as meaningless as the ink marks. Illyra sensed the

beginnings of the spell and withdrew across time to the barracks in Sanctuary.

Walegrin had removed the cloth from the table and placed a charcoal stylus in

her hand without her sensing it. For a fleeting .moment she compared her copying

to the images still in her mind. . Then the image was gone and she was fully

back in the room, quietly watching Walegrin as he stared at the table.

‘Is it what you wanted?’ she asked softly.

Walegrin did not answer, but threw back his head in cynical laughter. ‘Ah, my

sister! Your mother’s people are clever. Their curse reaches back to the dawn of

time. Look at this!’

He pointed at the copied lines and obediently Illyra examined them closely.

‘They are not what you wanted?’

Walegrin took the card of Quicksilver and pointed to the lines of script that

delineated the waterfall. ‘These are the runes that have been used since Ilsig

attained her height, but this -‘ he traced a squiggle on the table, ‘this is

older than Ilsig. By Calisard, Vortheld, and a thousand gods of long dead

soldiers, how foolish I’ve been! For years I’ve chased the secret of Enlibar

steel and never realized that the formula would be as old as the ruins we found

it in.’

Illyra reached across the table and held his clenched fists between her palms.

‘Surely there are those who can read this? How different can one sort of writing

be from another?’ she asked with an illiterate’s innocence.

‘As different as the speech of the Raggah is from yours.’

Illyra nodded. It was not the time to tell him that when the Raggah came to

trade they bargained with hand signals so none could hear their speech. ‘You

could go to a scriptorium along Governor’s Walk. They sell letters like Blind

Jakob sells fruit – it won’t matter what the letter says as long as you pay the

price,’ she suggested.

‘You don’t understand, ‘Lyra. If the formula becomes known again, ambition will

seek it out. Rulers will arm their men with Enlibar steel and set out to conquer

their neighbours. Wars will ruin the land and the men who live on it.’ Walegrin

had calmed himself and begun to trace the charcoal scratches onto a piece of

translucent parchment.

‘But, you wish to have it.’ Illyra’s tone became accusing.

‘For ten years I’ve campaigned for Ranke. I’ve taken my men far north, beyond

the plains. In those lands there’re nomads with no cause to fear us. Swift and

outnumbering us by thousands they cut through our ranks like a knife through

soft cheese. We fell back and the Emperor had our commanders hung as cowards. We

went forwards again, with new officers, and were thrown back again with the same

results. I was commissioned myself and feared we’d be sent forwards a third

time, but Ranke has discovered easier gold to conquer in the east and the army

left its dead in the field to chase some other Imperial ambition.

‘I remembered the stories of Enlibar. I hid there when I first escaped this

town. With Enlibar steel my men’s swords would reap nomad blood and I would not

be deemed a coward.

‘I found men in the capitol who listened to my plans. They knew the army and

knew the battlefield. They’re no friends of a hidebound Emperor who sees no more

of war than a parade ground, but they became my friends. They gave me leave to

search the ruins with my men and arranged for the garrison posts here when all

omens said the answer lay in Sanctuary. If I can return to tnem with the formula

the army won’t be the whipping-boy of lazy Emperors. Someday men who understand

steel and blood would rule … but, I’ve failed them. The damned S’danzo curse

has preceded me! The mage was gone when I got here and my dreams have receded

further with each step I.decided to take.’

‘Walegrin,’ Illyra began, ‘the S’danzo are not that powerful. Look at the cards.

I cannot read your writing, but I can read them and there are no curses in your

fate. You’ve found what you came for. Red clay yields steel through the Ore

ruler, Quicksilver. True, Quicksilver is a deceiver, but only because its depths

are concealed. Quicksilver will let you change this scribbling into something

more to your liking.’ She was S’danzo again, dispensing wisdom amid her candles,

but without the bright colours and heavy kohl her words had a new urgent

sincerity.

‘ You are touched by the same curse! You lie with your husband yet have no

children.’

Illyra shrank back ashamed. ‘I … I use the S’danzo gifts; I must believe in

their powers. But you seek the power of steel and war. You need not believe in

S’danzo; you need not fear them. You ran away – you escaped! The only curse upon

you is that of your own guilt.’

She averted her eyes from his face and collected her cards carefully lest her

trembling fingers send the deck flying across the rough-hewn floors. She shook

out her cloak, getting relief from her anger in the whip-like snap of the heavy

material.

‘I’ve answered your questions. I’ll take my payment, if you please.’ She

extended her hand, still not looking at his face.

Walegrin unfastened the suede pouch from his belt and placed it on the table.

‘I’ll get the torch and we can leave for the bazaar.’

‘No, I’ll take the torch and go alone.’

‘The streets are no place for a woman after dark.’

‘I’ll get by – I did before.’

‘I’ll have one of my men accompany you.’

‘All right,’ Illyra agreed, inwardly relieved by the compromise.

From the speed with which the soldier appeared Illyra guessed he had been right

outside all along and party to everything that had passed. Regardless, the man

took the torch and walked slightly ahead of her, attentive to duty but without

any attempt at conversation until they reached the bazaar gates where Illyra had

to step forwards to guide them both through the maze of stalls.

She took her leave of the man without farewell and slipped into the darkness of

her home. Familiarity obviated need for light. She moved quickly and quietly,

folding the clothes into a neat bundle and storing the precious pouch with her

few other valuables before easing into the warm bed.

‘You’ve returned safely. I was ready to pull on my trousers and come looking for

you. Did he give you all that he promised?’ Dubro whispered, settling his arms

around her.

‘Yes, and I answered all his questions. He has the formula now for Enlibar

steel, whatever that is, and if his purposes are true he’ll make much of it.’

Her body released its tension in a series of small spasms and Dubro held her

tighter.

‘Enlibar steel,’ he mused softly. ‘The swords of legend were of Enlibar steel.

The man who possesses such steel now would be a man to be reckoned with … even

if he were a blacksmith.’

Illyra pulled the linen over her ears and pretended not to hear.

‘Sweetmeats! Sweetmeats! Always the best in the bazaar!

Always the best in Sanctuary!’

Mornings were normal again with Haakon wheeling his cart past the blacksmith’s

stall before the crowds disrupted the community. Illyra, one eye ringed with

kohl and the other still pristine, raced out to purchase their breakfast treats.

‘There’s news in the town,’ the vendor said as he dropped three of the pastries

onto Illyra’s plate. ‘Twice news in fact. All of last night’s watch from the

garrison took its leave of the town during the night and the crippled scribe who

lived in the Street of Armourers was carried off amid much screaming and

commotion. Of course, there was no watch to answer the call. The Hell Hounds

consider it beneath them to patrol the law-abiding parts of town.’ Haakon’s ire

was explained, in part, by his own residence in the upper floors of a house on

the Street of Armourers.

Illyra looked at Dubro, who nodded slowly in return.

‘Might they be connected?’ she asked.

‘Pah! What would fleeing garrison troops want with a man who reads fifteen dead

languages but can’t pass water without someone to guide his hands?’

What indeed?

Dubro went back to his forge and Illyra stared over the bazaar walls to the

palace which marked the northern extent of the town. Haakon, who had expected a

less mysterious reaction to his news, muttered farewell and wheeled his cart to

another stall for a more sympathetic audience.

The first of the day’s townsfolk could he heard arguing with other vendors.

Illyra hurried back into the shelter of the stall to complete her daily

transformation into a S’danzo crone. She pulled Walegrin’s three Ore cards from

her deck and placed them in the pouch with her mother’s jewellery, lit the

incense of gentle-forgetting, and greeted the first querent of the day.

THE DREAM OF THE SORCERESS

by A. E. Van Vogt

The scream brought Stulwig awake in pitch darkness. He lay for a long moment

stiff with fear. Like any resident of old, decadent Sanctuary his first fleeting

thought was that the ancient city, with its night prowlers, had produced another

victim’s cry of terror. This one was almost as close to his second-floor,

greenhouse residence as-

His mind paused. Realization came, then, in a nickering self-condemnation.

Did it again!

His special nightmare. It had come out of that shaded part of his brain where he

kept his one dark memory. Never a clear recall. Perhaps not even real. But it

was all he had from the night three years and four moons ago when his father’s

death cry had come to him in his sleep.

He was sitting up, now, balancing himself on the side of the couch. And thinking

once more, guiltily: if only that first time I had gone to his room to find out.

Instead, it was morning before he had discovered the dead body with its slit

throat and its horrifying grimace. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. Which

was odd. Because his father at fifty was physically a good example of the

healer’s art he anc” Alten both practised. Lying there in the light of day after

his death, his sprawled body looked as powerful and strong as that of his son at

thirty.

The vivid images of that past disaster faded. Stulwig sank back and down onto

the sheep fur. Covered himself. Listened in the continuing dark to the sound of

wind against a corner of his greenhouse. It was a strong wind; he could feel the

bedroom tremble. Moments later, he was still awake when he heard a faraway

muffled cry – someone being murdered out there in the Maze?

Oddly, that was the final steadying thought. It brought his inner world into

balance with the outer reality. After all, this was Sanctuary where, every hour

of each night, a life ended violently like a candle snuffed out.

At this time of early, early morning he could think of no purpose that he could

have about anything. Not with those dark, dirty, dusty, windblown streets. Nor

in relation to the sad dream that had brought him to shocked awareness. Nothing

for him to do, actually, but turn over, and-

He woke with a start. It was daylight. And someone was knocking at his outer

door two rooms away.

‘One moment!’ he called out.

Naturally, it required several moments. A few to tumble out of his night robe.

And even more to slip into the tunic, healer’s gown, and slippers. Then he was

hurrying through the bright sunlight of the greenhouse. And on into the dimness

of the hallway beyond, with its solid door. Solid, that was, except for the vent

at mouth level. Stulwig placed his lips at his end of the slanted vent, and

asked,

‘Who is it?’

The answering voice was that of a woman. ‘It’s me. Illyra. Alone.’

The seeress! Stulwig’s heart quickened. His instant hope: another chance for her

favours. And alone – that was a strange admission this early in the morning.

Hastily, he unblocked the door. Swung it open, past his own gaunt form. And

there she stood in the dimness, at the top of his stairway. She was arrayed as

he remembered her, in her numerous skirts and S’danzo scarfs. But the beautiful

face above all those cloth frills was already shaded with creams and powders.

She said, ‘Alten, I dreamed of you.’ | There was something in her tone: an

implication of darkness. Stulwig felt an instant chill. She was giving him a

sorceress’s signal.

Her presence, alone, began to make sense. What she had to offer him transcended

a man’s itching for a woman. And she expected him to realize it.

Standing there, just inside his door, Stulwig grew aware that he was trembling.

A dream. The dream of a sorceress.

He swallowed. And found his voice. It was located deep in his throat, for when

he spoke it was a husky sound: ‘What do you want?’

‘I need three of your herbs.’ She named them: stypia, gernay, dalin.

This was the bargaining moment. And in the world of Sanctuary there were few

victims at such a time. From his already long experience, Stulwig made his

offer: ‘The stypia and the gernay for the dream. For the dalin one hour in my

bed tonight for an assignation.’

Silence. The bright eyes seemed to shrink.

‘What’s this?’ asked Stulwig. ‘Is it possible that with your see-ress’s sight

you believe that this time there will be no evasion?’

Twice before, she had made reluctant assignation agreements. On each occasion, a

series of happenings brought about a circumstance whereby he needed her

assistance. And for that, release from the assignation was her price.

Stulwig’s voice softened to a gentler tone: ‘Surely, it’s time, my beautiful,

that you discover how much greater pleasure it is for a woman to have lying on

her the weight of a normal man rather than that monstrous mass of blacksmith’s

muscles, the possessor of which by some mysterious power captured you when you

were still too young to know any better. Is it a bargain?’

She hesitated a moment longer. And then, as he had expected after hearing the

name of the third drug, she nodded.

A business transaction. And that required the goods to be on hand. Stulwig

didn’t argue. ‘Wait!’ he admonished. ^

Himself, he did not wait. Instead, he backed quickly out of the hallway and into

the greenhouse. He presumed that, with her seeress’s sight, she knew that he

knew about the very special person who wanted the dalin. He felt tolerant. That

prince – he thought. In spite of all the advice the women receive as to when

they are, and are not, capable of accepting the male seed, the youthful governor

evidently possesses his concubines so often that they are unable to divert his

favours away from the one who – by sorceress’s wisdom – is most likely in the

time of pregnancy capability.

And so – a miscarriage was needed. A herb to bring it on.

Suppressing excitement, the dream almost forgotten in his state of

overstimulation, the healer located all three herbs, in turn. The stypia came

from a flowering plant that spread itself over one entire end of his big, bright

room. Someone would be using it soon for a persistent headache. The gernay was a

mixture of two roots, a flower, and a leaf, all ground together, to be made into

a tea with boiling water, steeped, and drunk throughout the day. It was for

constipation.

While he worked swiftly, deftly, putting each separately into a small pouch,

Stulwig pictured Illyra leaving her little stall. At the opportune moment she

had pushed aside the black curtains that blocked her away from the sight of

curious passersby. His mental image was of a one-room dwelling place in a dreary

part of the Maze. Coming out of that flimsy shelter at this hour of the morning

was not the wisest act even for a seeress. But, of course, she would have some

knowing to guide her. So that she could dart from one concealment to another at

exactly the right moments, avoiding danger. And then, naturally, once she got to

the narrow stairway leading up to his roof abode, there would be only the need

to verify that no one was lurking on the staircase itself.

He brought the three bags back to the hallway, and placed two of them into her

slender hands. And with that, there it was again, the reason for her visit. The

special dream. For him.

He waited, not daring to say anything for, suddenly, there was that tenseness

again.

She seemed not to need prompting. She said simply, ‘In my dream. Ils came to me

in the form of an angry young man and spoke to me about you. His manner was

ferocious throughout; and my impression is that he is displeased with you.’ She

finished, ‘In his human form he had jet black hair that came down to his

shoulders.’

There was silence. Inside Stulwig, a blankness spread from some inner centre of

fear. A numbness seemed to be in all locations.

Finally: ‘Us!’ he croaked.

The impossible!

There were tales that reported the chief god of old Ilsig occasionally

interfering directly in human affairs. But that he had done so in connection

with Alten Stulwig brought a sense of imminent disaster.

Illyra seemed to know what he was feeling. ‘Something about your father,’ she

said, softly, ‘is the problem.’

Her hand and arm reached out. Gently, she took hold of the third pouch; tugged

at it. Stulwig let go. He watched numbly as she turned and went rapidly down the

stairway. Moments later there was a flare of light as the bottom door opened

and shut. Just before it closed he had a glimpse of the alley that was there,

and of her turning to go left.

Us!

All that morning, after the sick people started to arrive, Stulwig tried to put

the thought of the god out of his mind. There were several persons who talked

excessively about their ailments; and for a change he let them ramble on. The

sound of each person’s voice, in turn, distracted him for a precious time from

his inner feeling of imminent disaster. He was accustomed to pay attention, to

compare, and decide. And, somehow, through all the numbness he managed to hold

onto that ability.

A persistent stomach ache – ‘What have you been eating?’ The flower of the agris

plant was exchanged for a silver coin.

A pain in the chest. ‘How long? Where, exactly?’ The root of the dark melles was

eaten and swallowed while he watched, in exchange for one small Rankan gold

piece.

Persistently bleeding gums. The flower and seeds of a rose, and the light brown

grindings from the husk of grain were handed over, with the instruction: ‘Take a

spoonful each morning and night.’ ,

–

There were a dozen like that. All were anxious and disturbed. And they took up

his time until the morning was almost over. Suddenly, the visitors ceased to

come. At once, there was the awful thought of Ils the Mighty, angry with him.

‘What could he want of me?’

That was the persistent question. Not, what purpose could Alten Stulwig have in

this awful predicament? But what intention did the super-being have in relation

to him? Or what did he require of him?

It was almost the noon hour before the second possibility finally penetrated the

madness of merely waiting for further signals. And the more personal thought

took form.

‘It’s up to me. I should ask certain people for advice, or even-‘ sudden hope

‘information.’

Just like that he had something he could do.

At that moment there was one more patient. And then, as the rather stocky woman

departed with her little leather bag clutched in one greasy hand, Stulwig

hastily put on his street boots. Grabbed his stave. And, moments later, was

heading down the stairs two at a time.

Arrived at the bottom; naturally, he paused. And peered forth cautiously. The

narrow street, as he now saw it, pointed both left and right. The nearest

crossing was an alleyway to the left. And Stulwig presumed, as his gaze flicked

back and forth, Illyra, on her leave-taking that morning, had turned up that

alley.

-Though it was still not clear why she had gone left when her stall was to the

right. Going by the alley was, for her, a long, devious route home…

His own destination, already decided, required Stulwig to pass her stall. And

so, his stave at the ready, he walked rightwards. A few dozen steps brought him

to a crowded thoroughfare. Again, a pause. And, once more, his gaze flicking

back and forth. Not that he felt in danger here, at this hour. What he saw was a

typical throng. There were the short people who wore the sheeny satinish cloth

of west Caronne. They mingled casually with the taller folk in dark tunics from

the far south of the Empire. Equally at ease were red-garbed sailors on shore

leave from a Cleean vessel. Here and there a S’danzo woman in her rich attire

reminded him of Illyra. There were other races, and other dress, of course. But

these were more of a kind. The shabby poor. The thieves. The beggars. All too

similar, one to the other, to be readily identified.

For a few moments, as he stood there, Stulwig’s own problem faded from the

forefront of his mind. In its place came a feeling he had had before: a sense of

wonder.

Me! Here in this fantastic world.

All these people. This street, with its ancient buildings, its towers, and its

minarets. And the meaning of it all going back and back into the dim reaches of

a fabulous history.

Almost – standing there – Stulwig forgot where he was heading. And when the

memory came again it seemed to have a different form.

A more practical form. As if what he had in mind was a first step of several

that would presently lead him to – what? Mental pause.

.

It was, he realized, the first dim notion of having a goal beyond mere

information. First, of course, the facts; those he had to have.

Somehow, everything was suddenly clearer. As he started forwards it was almost

as if he had a purpose with a solution implicit in it.

Illyra’s stall he passed a short time later. Vague disappointment, then, as he

saw that the black curtains were drawn.

Stulwig stalked on, heading west out of town across the bridge which spanned the

White Foal River. He ignored the hollow-eyed stares of the Downwinders as he

passed their hovels, and only slowed his pace when he reached his destination, a

large estate lorded over by a walled mansion. A sell-sword stood guard just

inside the large, spreading yard. Theirs was a language Stulwig understood. He

took out two coppers and held them forth. –

‘Tell Jubal that Alien Stulwig wishes to see him.’

The coppers were skilfully palmed, and transferred to a slitted pocket in the

tight-fitting toga. In a baritone voice the sell-sword called out the message –

Stulwig entered the throne room, and saw that gleaming-skinned black man sitting

on the throne chair. He bowed courteously- towards the throne. Whereupon Jubal

waved one large arm, beckoning his visitor. And then he sat scowling as Stulwig

told his story. ;,

Despite the scowl, there was no resistance, or antagonism, in the bright, wicked

eyes; only interest. Finally, as Stulwig fell silent, the merchant said, ‘You

believe, as I understand you, that one or another of my numerous paid informants

may have heard something at the time of your father’s death that would provide a

clue: information, in short, that is not even available from a sorceress.’

‘I so believe,’ acknowledged Stulwig.

‘And how much will you pay if I can correctly recall something that was said to

me in passing more than three long years ago?’

Stulwig hesitated; and hoped that his desperation did not show on that sunburned

face of his; it was the one thing the chapped skin was good for: sometimes it

enabled him to conceal his feelings. What he sensed now was a high cost; and the

best outward show for that was to act as if this was a matter about which he was

merely curious. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, in his best practical tone, ‘your next two

visits for healing free-‘

‘For what I remember,’ said the big black, ‘the price is the medium Rankan gold

piece and the two visits.’

Long, unhappy pause. All this trouble and cost for an innocent man who, himself,

had done nothing. It seemed unfair. ‘Perhaps,’ ventured Stulwig, ‘if you were to

give me the information I could decide if the price is merited.’

He was slightly surprised when Jubal nodded. ‘That seems reasonable. We’re both

men of our word.’ The big man twisted his lips, as if he were considering. Then:

‘The morning after your father died, a night prowler who watches the dark hours

for me saw Vashanka come through your door – not out of it, through it. He was

briefly a figure of dazzling light as he moved down the street. Then he vanished

in a blinding puff of brightness akin to lightning. The flareup, since it lit up

the entire street, was seen by several other persons, who did not know its

origin.’

Jubal continued, ‘I should tell you that there is an old story that a god can go

through a wall or a door only if a second god is nearby on the other side. So we

may reason that for Vashanka to be able to emerge in the fashion described there

was another god outside. However, my informants did not see this second mighty

being.’

‘Bu-u-t-t!’ Stulwig heard a stuttering voice. And only when the mad sound

collapsed into silence did he realize that it was his own mouth that had tried

to speak.

What he wanted to say, what was trying to form in his mind” and in his tongue

was that, for Vashanka to have penetrated into the barricaded greenhouse in the

first place, then there must already have been a god inside; who had somehow

inveigled his way past his father’s cautious resistance to night-time visitors.

The words, the meaning, wouldn’t come. The logic of it was too improbable for

Stulwig to pursue the matter.

Gulping, he fumbled in his pocket. Identified the desired coin with his fingers.

Brought it ont. And laid it into the outstretched palm. The price was cheap – it

was as if a voice inside him spoke his acceptance of that truth.

For a while after Stulwig left Jubal’s grounds, his feeling was that he had now

done what there was to do. He had the information he had craved. So what else

was there? Go home and – and -Back to normalcy.

It was an unfortunate way of describing the reality to himself. It brought a

mental picture of a return to his daily routine as if no warning had been given.

His deep, awful feeling was that something more was expected of him. What could

it be?

It was noon. The glowing orb in the sky burned down upon Stulwig. His already

miserably sunburned face itched abominably, and he kept scratching at the scabs;

and hating himself because his sun-sensitive skin was his one disaster that no

herb or ointment seemed to help. And here he was stumbling in the direct rays,

making it worse.

He was walking unsteadily, half-blinded by his own inner turmoil and physical

discomfort, essentially not heeding the crowds around him when … the part of

him that was guiding him, holding him away from collisions, helping him find a

pathway through an everchanging river of people – that part, still somehow

observant, saw a familiar man’s face.

Stulwig stopped short. But already the man was gone by; his feet scraping at the

same dusty street as were the feet of a dozen other passers of the moment;

scraping dust and breathing it in.

Normally, Stulwig would have let him go. But this was not a normal time. He spun

around. He jammed his stave against the ground as a brace. And took four, long,

swift steps. He reached.

Almost gently, then, his fingers touched the sleeve and, through it, the arm of

the man. ‘Cappen Varra,’ Stulwig said.

The young man with the long black hair that rested on his shoulders turned his

head. The tone ofStulwig’s voice was evidently not threatening; for Cappen

merely paused without tensing. Nor did he make a quick reach of the hand towards

the blade at his side.

But it took several moments before he seemed to realize who his interceptor was.

Then: ‘Oh! the healer?’ He spoke questioningly.

Stulwig was apologetic. ‘I would like to speak to you, sir. Though, as I recall

it you only sought my services on one occasion. And I think somebody told me

that you had recently departed from Sanctuary for a visit to your distant home.’

The minstrel did not reply immediately. He was backing off, away from the main

stream of that endlessly moving crowd; backing towards a small space between a

fruit stand and a table on which stood a dozen small crates, each containing a

half-dozen or so small, live, edible, noisy birds.

Since Stulwig had shuffled after him, Cappen was able to say in a low voice, ‘It

was a very decisive time for me. The herbs you gave me produced a series of

regurgitations which probably saved my life. I still believe I was served

poisoned food.’

‘I need advice,’ said Alten Stulwig.

‘We can talk here,’ said Cappen.

It was not an easy story to tell. There was a rise and fall of street sounds.

Several times he coughed from an intake of dust thrown at him by the heel of a

passerby. But in the end he had completed his account. And it was then,

suddenly, that the other man’s eyes widened, as if a startling thought had come

to him.

‘Are you telling me that you are seriously pursuing the murderer of your father,

despite that you have now discovered that the killer may well be the second most

powerful Rankan god?’

It was the first time that meaning had been spoken so exactly. Stulwig found

himself suddenly as startled as his questioner. Before he could say anything,

the lean-faced, good-looking wandering singer spoke again: ‘What – what happens

if he ever

lets you catch up with him?’

The way the question was worded somehow steadied the healer. He said, ‘As we

know, Vashanka can come to me any time he wishes. My problem is that I do not

know why he came to my father, nor why he would come to me? If I could find that

out, then perhaps I could go to the temple of Ils and ask the priests for help.’

Cappen frowned, and said, ‘Since you seem to have these powerful purposes,

perhaps I should remind you of the myth.’ He went on: ‘You know the story.

Vashanka is the god of warriors and weapons, the wielder of lightning, and other

powerful forces. You know of this?’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Stulwig replied helplessly, ‘is why would such a

being kill my father?’

‘Perhaps-‘ a shrug – ‘they were rivals for the affection of the same woman.’ He

went on, ‘It is well known that the gods frequently assume human form in order

to have concourse with human females.’ The beautiful male face twisted. The

bright eyes gazed into Stulwig’s. ‘I have heard stories,’ Cappen said, ‘that

you, as your father before you, often accept a woman’s favours in exchange for

your services as a healer; the woman having nothing else to give pays the price

in the time-honoured way of male-female. As a consequence you actually have many

half-brothers out there in the streets, and you yourself – so it has been said

have sired a dozen sons and daughters, unacknowledged because of course no one

can ever be sure who is the father of these numerous waifs, unless there is

unmistakable facial resemblance.’

Another shrug. ‘I’m not blaming you. These are the truths of our world. But-‘

He stopped. His hand extended gingerly, and touched Stulwig’s stave. ‘It’s tough

wood.’

Stulwig was uneasy. ‘Awkward to handle in close quarters, and scarcely a weapon

to ward off the god of lightning.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Cappen, ‘it’s your best defence. Use it firmly. Keep it

between you and any attacker. Yield ground and flee only when there’s a good

moment.’

‘But,’ protested Stulwig, ‘suppose Vashanka seeks me out? Shall I pit my staff

against the Rankan god of war?’ When Cappen merely stood there, looking

indifferent now, the healer continued in a desperate tone, ‘There are stories of

how Ils helped individuals in battle in the old days. But I grew up after the’

Rankan conquest and -‘ he was gloomy – ‘ somehow the powers of the defeated god

of old Ilsig didn’t seem worth inquiring about. So I’m ignorant of what he did,

or how.’

Abruptly, Cappen Varra was impatient. ‘You asked for my advice,’ he said curtly.

‘I have given it to you. Goodbye.’

He walked off into the crowd.

They brought Stulwig before the prince, who recognized him. ‘Why, it’s the

healer,’ he said. Whereupon, he glanced question-ingly at Molin Torchbearer.

The hall of justice was all too brightly lit by the mid-afternoon sunlight. The

sun was at that location in the sky whereby its rays shone directly through the

slanting vents that were designed to catch, and siphon off, rain water … as

the high priest said accusingly, ‘Your most gracious excellency, we found this

follower of Ils in the temple of Vashanka.’

With the brilliant light pouring down upon him, Stulwig started towards the dais

– and the two Hell Hounds, who had been holding him, let him go.

He stopped only when he came to the long wooden barrier that separated the

accused criminals from the high seat, where the prince sat in judgement. From

that fence, Stulwig spoke his protest. ‘I did no harm, your highness. And I

meant no harm. Tell his excellency-‘ he addressed Torchbearer – ‘that your

assistants found me on my knees before the-‘ he hesitated; he had been about to

say ‘the idol’. Uneasily, his mind moved over to the word, ‘statue’. But he

rejected that also, shuddering. After a long moment he finished lamely – ‘before

Vashanka himself, praying for his assistance.’

‘Yes, but a follower of Ils praying to a son of Savankala-‘ Torchbearer was grim

– ‘absolutely forbidden by the doctrines of our religion.’

There seemed to be no answer that he could make. Feeling helpless, Stulwig

waited. It was a year since he had last seen the youthful governor, who would

now decide his fate. Standing there, Stulwig couldn’t help but notice that there

were changes in the young ruler’s appearance – for the better, it seemed to him.

The prince, as all knew, was at this time twenty years old. He had been

representative in Sanctuary for his older half-brother, the emperor, for only

one of those years, but that year had brought a certain maturity where once

there had been softness. It was still a boyish face, but a year of power had

marked it with an appearance of confidence.

The young governor seemed undecided, as he said, ‘Well – it does not look like a

serious crime. I should think we would encourage converts rather than punishing

them.’ He hesitated, then followed the amenities. ‘What penalty do you

recommend?’ He addressed the high priest of Rankan deities courteously.

There was a surprisingly long pause. Almost, it was as if the older man was

having second thoughts. Torchbearer said finally, ‘Perhaps, we should inquire

what he was praying for. And then decide.’

‘An excellent idea,’ the prince agreed heartily.

Once more, then, Stulwig told his story, ending in a humble tone, ‘Therefore,

sir, as soon as I discovered that, apparently, the great gods themselves were

involved in some disagreement, I decided to pray to Vashanka to ask what he

wanted me to do; asked him what amends I could make for whatever my sin might

be.’

He was surprised as he completed his account to see that the prince was

frowning. And, in fact, moments later, the young governor bent down towards one

of the men at a table below him to one side, and said something in a low voice.

The aide’s reply was equally inaudible.

The youngest ruler Sanctuary had ever had thereupon faced forwards. His gaze

fixed on Stulwig’s face. ‘There are several people in these parts,’ he said in

an alarmingly severe voice, ‘of whose whereabouts we maintain a continuing

awareness. Cappen Varra, for several reasons, is one of these. And so, Mr

Healer, I have to inform you that Cappen left Sanctuary half a moon ago, and is

not expected back for at least two more moons.’

‘B-b-bu-ut-‘ Stulwig began. And stopped. Then in a high-pitched voice: ‘That man

in the seeress’s dream!’ he stuttered. ‘Long black hair to the shoulders. Ils in

human form!’

There was silence after he had spoken there in that great hall of justice, where

a youthful Rankan prince sat in judgement, looking down from his high bench.

Other offenders were waiting in the back of the room. They were guarded by

slaves, with the two Hell Hounds that had brought Stulwig acting as overseers.

So there would be witnesses to this judgement. The wisdom of it, whatever course

it might take, would be debated when the news of it got out.

Standing there, Stulwig suppressed an impulse to remind his highness of a

certain night thirteen moons ago. In the wee hours he had been called out of his

bed, and escorted to the palace.

On that occasion he had been taken directly into the prince’s bedroom. There he

found a frightened young man, who had awakened in the darkness with an extremely

fast heartbeat – more than double normal, Stulwig discovered when he counted the

pulse. The attending court healer had not been able, by his arts, to slow the

madly beating organ. Stulwig had braced himself, and had taken the time to ask

the usual questions, which produced the information that his highness had

imbibed excessively all evening.

A minor heart condition was thus revealed. The cure: primarily time for the body

to dispose of the alcohol through normal channels. But Stulwig asked, and was

given, permission to return to his greenhouse. He raced there accompanied by a

Hell Hound. Arrived at his quarters, he procured the mixture of roots, nettles,

and a large red flower which, when steeped in boiling water, and swallowed in

mouthfuls every few minutes, within an hour had the heartbeat down, not to

normal, but sufficiently to be reassuring.

He thereupon informed the young man that according to his father persons that he

had attended when they were young, who had the same reaction, were still alive

two decades later. The prince was greatly relieved, and promised to limit

himself to no more than one drink of an evening.

Remained, then, the task of saving face for the court healer. Which Stulwig did

by thanking that disgraced individual for calling him for consultation; and,

within the hearing of the prince, adding that it took many individuals to

accumulate experience of all the ills that men were heir to. ‘And one of these

days I shall be asking your help.’

Would the youthful governor remember that night, and decide – hopeful thought

that Alten Stulwig was too valuable to penalize?

What the prince did, first, was ask one more question. He said, ‘During the time

you were with the person who seemed to be Cappen Varra, did he break into song,

or recite a verse?’

The significance of the question was instantly apparent. The minstrel was known

for his gaiety, and his free and easy renditions under all circumstances.

Stulwig made haste to say, ‘No, highness, not a sound, or a poetic phrase.

Contrariwise, he seemed very serious.’

A few moments later, the prince rendered his judgement. He said, ‘Since mighty

Vashanka himself seems to be acting directly in this matter, it would be

presumptuous of us to interfere.’

The lean-faced young man glanced at Molin. The high priest hesitated, then

nodded. Whereupon the prince turned once more to Stulwig.

‘Most worthy healer,’ he said, ‘you are released to whatever the future holds

for you. May the gods dispense justice upon you, balancing your virtues against

your sins.’

‘-So he does remember!’ thought Stulwig, gratefully.

Surprisingly, after he had been escorted outside, Stulwig knew at once which was

the proper place for him to go. Many times he had been confronted by grief or

guilt, or the hopelessness of a slighted lover, or a betrayed wife. For none of

these had his herbs ever accomplished more than a passing moment of sleep or

unconsciousness.

So now, as he entered the Vulgar Unicorn, he muttered under his breath the

bitter advice he had given on those special occasions for what his father had

called ailments of the spirit. The words, heard only by himself, were: ‘What you

need, Alten, is a good stiff drink.’ It was the ancient prescription for calming

the overwrought or the overemotional. In its fashion, however, liquor in fact

was a concoction of brewed herbs, and so within his purview.

The smell of the inn was already in his nostrils. The dimly lit interior blanked

his vision. But Stulwig could see sufficiently well so that he was aware of

vague figures sitting at tables, and of the gleam of polished wood. He sniffed

the mingling odours of hot food cooking. And already felt better.

And he knew this interior sufficiently well. So he strode forwards confidently

towards the dividing barrier where the brew was normally dispensed. And he had

his lips parted to give his order when his eyes, more accustomed to the light,

saw who it was that was taking the orders.

”One-Thumb!’ The name was almost torn out of his lips; so great was his

surprise and delight.

Eagerly, he reached forwards and grasped the other’s thick hand. ‘My friend, you

had us all worried. You have been absent-‘ He stopped, confused. Because the

time involved even for a long journey was long. Much more than a year. He

finished his greeting with a gulp, ‘You are right welcome, sir.’

The owner of the Vulgar Unicorn had become more visible with each passing

moment. So that when he gestured with one of his big hands at a helper, Stulwig

perceived the entire action; even saw the youth turn and come over.

The roly-poly but rugged One-Thumb indicated a table in one corner. ‘ Bring two

cups of brew thither for my friend and myself,’ he said. To Alten he added, ‘I

would have words with you, sir.’

So there they sat presently. And, after several sips, One-Thumb said, ‘I shall

say quickly what need be said. Alten, I must confess that I am not the real One

Thumb. I came because, with my sorcerer’s seeing, when this past noon hour my

body took on the form at which you are gazing, I had a visitor who informed me

that the transformation to a known person related to you.’

It was a long explanation. Long enough for Stulwig to have a variety of

reactions. First, amazement. Then, progressively, various puzzlements. And,

finally, tentative comprehension, and acceptance.

And since he held a drink in his hand, he raised it, and said, ‘To the real One

Thumb, wherever he may be.’

With that, still thinking hard as to what he could gain from this meeting, he

sipped from his cup; took a goodly quaff from it, and set it down. All the while

noticing that the other did not drink to the toast.

The false One-Thumb said unhappily, ‘My seeing tells me that the real One-Thumb

is in some strange location. It is not quite clear that he is still dead; but he

was killed.’

Up came Stulwig’s glass. ‘Very well, then, to Enas Yorl, the sorcerer, who in

whatever shape seems to be willing to be my friend.’

This time the other man’s cup came up slowly. He sipped. ‘I suppose,’ he said,

‘no one can refuse to drink to himself; since my motives are worthy I shall do

so.’

Stulwig’s mind was nickering again with the meanings of what had been said in

that long explanation. So, now, he asked the basic question: ‘Enas,’ he mumbled,

‘in what way does your being in One-Thumb’s body shape relate to me?’

The fleshy head nodded. ‘Pay careful heed,’ said the voice of One-Thumb. ‘The

goddess Azyuna appeared to me as I was experiencing the anguish of changing

form, and asked me to give you this message. You must go home before dark. But

do not this night admit to your quarters any person who has the outward

appearance of a man. Do this no matter how pitifully he begs for a healer’s

assistance, or how many pieces of gold he is prepared to pay. Tonight, direct

all male visitors to other healers.’

It took a while to drink to that, and to wonder about it aloud. And, of course,

as Sanctuarites, they discussed once more the story of Azyuna. How Vashanka had

discovered that she (his sister) and his ten brothers had plotted to murder the

father-god ofRanke, Savankala. Whereupon, Vashanka in his rage slew all ten of

the brothers; but his sister he reserved for a worse fate. She became his

unwilling mistress. And at times when the winds moaned and sobbed, it was said

that Azyuna was again being forced to pay the price of her intended betrayal of

her parents.

And now she had come down from heaven to warn a mere human being against the

brother who exacted that shame from her. ‘

‘How,’ asked Stulwig, after he had quaffed most of a second cup and had

accordingly reached a philosophical state of mind, ‘would you, old wise Enas

Yorl, explain why a goddess would take the trouble to warn a human being against

some scheme of her god-brother-lover?’

‘Because,’ was the reply, ‘she may be a goddess but she is also a woman. And as

all men know, women get even in strange ways.’

At that, Stulwig, remembering certain experiences of his own, shuddered a

little, nodded agreement, and said, ‘I estimate that we have been imbibing for a

goodly time, and so perhaps I had better take heed of your warning, and depart.

Perhaps, there is something I can do for you. A fee, perhaps.’

‘Make it one free visit when one of my changing shapes be-cometh ill.’

‘But not this night.’ Stulwig stood up, somewhat lightheaded, and was even able

to smile at his small jest.

‘No, not this night,’ agreed One-Thumb, also standing up. The big man added

quickly, ‘I shall appear to accompany you to the door as if to bid you goodbye.

But in fact I shall go out with you.

And so One-Thumb will vanish once more, perhaps this time forever.’

‘He has done nobly this day,’ said Stulwig. Whereupon he raised the almost empty

third cup, and said, ‘To the spirit of One-Thumb, wherever it may be, my good

wishes.’

As it developed, Enas Yorl’s plan of escape was made easy. Because as they

emerged from the inn there, coming up, was a small company of Rankan military

led by a Hell Hound. The latter, a man named Quag, middle-aged, but with a

prideful bearing, said to Stulwig, ‘Word came to his highness that you were

imbibing heavily; and so he has sent me and this company to escort you to your

residence.’

Stulwig turned to bid farewell to the false One-Thumb. And at once observed that

no such person was in sight. Quag seemed to feel that he was surprised. ‘He went

around that corner.’ He indicated with his thumb. ‘Shall we pursue him?’

‘No, no.’

It was no problem at all for a man with three cups of brew in him to step

forwards, and walk beside a Hell Hound like an equal.

And to say, ‘I’m somewhat surprised at his highness taking all this trouble for

a person not of Ranke birth, or-‘ daringly -‘religion.’

Quag was calm, seemingly unoffended. ‘These are not matters about which I am

qualified to have an opinion.’

‘Of course,’ Stulwig continued with a frown, ‘getting me back to my quarters

could place me in a location where the mighty Vashanka could most easily find

me.’

They were walking along a side street in the Maze. But a goodly crowd pressed by

at that moment. So if Quag were contemplating a reply it was interrupted by the

passing of so great a number of individuals.

When they had wended through the mob, Stulwig continued, ‘After all, we have to

remember that it is Ils that is the god of a thousand eyes. Which, presumably,

means that he can see simultaneously where everybody in the world of Ilsig is at

any one moment. No such claim – of many eyes – is made for either Savankala or

his son, Vashanka. And so we may guess that Vashanka does not know that-‘

He stopped, appalled. He had almost let slip that the goddess Azyuna had come to

Enas Yorl with a warning. And, of course, her brother-lover, with his limited

vision, would not know that she had done so.

‘These are all fine points,’ Stulwig finished lamely, ‘and of concern only to an

individual like myself who seems to have earned the displeasure of one of these

mighty beings.’

Quag was calm. ‘Having lived many years,’ he said, ‘it could be that I have some

clarifying information for you, whereby you may judge the seriousness of your

situation.’ He continued, after a moment of silence,’ In Sanctuary, the reason

for the gods interfering in human affairs can have only one underlying motive.

Someone has got above himself. What would be above a healer? A woman of noble

family taken advantage of. An insult to a priest or god. Was your father guilty

of either sin?’

‘Hmmm!’ Stulwig did not resist the analysis. He nodded thoughtfully in the

Sanctuary way of agreement, shaking his head from side to side. ‘No question,’

he said, ‘it was not a chance killing. The assassin by some means penetrated a

barricaded residence, committed the murder, and departed without stealing any

valuables. In a city where people are daily killed most casually for their

possessions, when – as in this instance of my father’s assassination – the

possessions are untouched, we are entitled to guess a more personal motive.’

He added unhappily, ‘I have to confess that the reason I did not run to his

rescue when I heard his cry, was that he had established an agreement with me

that neither of us would intrude upon the other during the night hours. So it

could have been a lady of quality being avenged.’

For a small time they walked silently. Then: ‘I advise you to abandon this

search.’ Quag spoke earnestly. ‘Go back to your healing profession, and leave

murderers to the authorities.’

This time Stulwig did the up and down headshake, meaning no. He said unhappily,

‘When Ils himself manifests in a dream, which unmistakably commands me to track

down the killer, I have no choice.’

The Hell Hound’s craggy face was visibly unimpressed. ‘After all,’ he said

dismissingly, ‘Your Ils failed all his people in Sanctuary when he allowed the

city to be overrun by armies that worshipped another god.’

‘The city is being punished for its sinfulness.’ Stulwig automatically spoke the

standard explanation given by the priests of Ils. ‘When we have learned our

lesson, and paid our penalty, the invader will be impelled to depart.’

‘When I left the palace,’ said Quag, ‘there was no sign of the prince’s slaves

packing his goods.’ Shrugging. ‘Such a departure for such a reason is difficult

for me to envision, and I suggest you build no hopes on it.’

He broke off. ‘Ah, here we are. As soon as you are safely inside – and of course

we’ll search the place and make sure there is no one lurking in a dark corner-‘

It was a few periods later. ‘Thank you,’ said a grateful Stulwig. He watched

them, then, go down the stairs. When Quag paused at the bottom, and looked back

questioningly, Stulwig dutifully closed and barricaded the door.

And there he was.

It was a quiet evening. Two men patients and one woman patient knocked on the

door. Each, through the vent, requested healing service. Stulwig sent the men

down the street to Kurd; and they departed in their considerably separated

times, silently accepting.

Stulwig hesitated when he heard the woman’s voice. She was a long-time patient,

and would pay in gold. Nevertheless, he finally directed her to a healer named

Nemis. When the woman objected, he gave as his excuse that he had eaten bad

food, and was not well. She seemed to accept that; for she went off, also.

Shortly after midnight there was a fourth hesitant knock. It was Illyra. As he

heard her whisper, something inside Stulwig leaped with excitement. She had

come, she said, as they had agreed upon that morning. .

An exultant Stulwig unlocked the door. Admitted her. Motioned her towards his

bedroom. And, as she went with a heavy rustling of her numerous skirts, he

barricaded the door again.

Moments later, he was snuffing out the candles, and flinging off his clothes.

And then in pitch darkness he joined her in the bed. As he located her naked

body, he had no sense of guilt; no feeling of being wrong.

In Sanctuary everybody knew the game. There were no prissies. Every woman was

someone’s mistress whether she liked it or not. Every man was out for himself,

and took advantage where he could. There were, true, codes of honour and

religion. But they did not apply to love, liquor, or making a living. You drove

the hardest bargain right now.

The opportunity seen. Instantly, the mind wildly scanned the possibilities. Then

came the initial outrageous demand, thereupon negotiated downward by the equally

determined defences of the second party to the transaction.

And that was what had brought the beautiful Illyra into his embrace. Her own

agreement that, unless something happened to interfere, she would be available

for him in the man-woman relation.

Apparently, once she realized that the bargain was binding, she did not resist

its meaning. In the darkness Stulwig found her naked body fully acceptant of

him. Complete with many small motions and excitements. Most of the women who

paid in kind for his services lay like frozen statues, occasionally vibrating a

little in the final moments of the act. After which they hastily slipped out of

bed. Dressed. And raced off down the stairs and out into the Maze.

With Illyra so different, even to the point of sliding her palms over his skin,

Stulwig found himself thinking once more of the huge blacksmith who was her

established lover. It was hard to visualize this female, even though she seemed

somewhat larger than he would have guessed, with such a massive male on top of

her. Although-

A sudden realization: there were surprisingly strong muscles that lay under him.

… This woman is no weakling. In fact-

Presently, as he proceeded with the lovemaking, Stulwig found himself mentally

shaking his head … Those voluminous S’danzo skirts, he thought, conceal more

than slender flesh – his sudden impression was that, in fact, Illyra was on the

plump side. And that obviously she wore the skirts to hide a considerably

heavier body than she wanted onlookers to know about. Not hard to do, with her

face so thin and youthful.

No mind. She was a woman who had not been easy to capture.

And here she was, actually responding. Interesting, also, that her skin felt

unusually warm, almost as if she had a temperature.

He was coming to the climax. And so the size of her was temporarily blanked out.

Thus, the awareness of a transformation of her plump body into that of an

Amazon, was like coming out of a glorious dream into a nightmare.

His sudden impossible impression: he was lying on top of a woman over six feet

tall, with hips that spread out beneath him at least a foot wider than he was.

His stunned thought, immediately spoken: ‘Illyra, what is this? Some sorceress’s

trick?’

In a single, sliding motion he disengaged from that massive female body. Slid

off onto the floor. And scrambled to his feet.

As he did so there was a flash of incredible brightness. It lit up the entire

room, revealing an oversized, strange, naked woman on his couch, sitting up now.

And revealing, also, a man’s huge lighted figure coming through a door that,

before his father’s death, had been a private entrance to Alten’s bedroom. It

was an entrance that he had, long ago now, sealed up … Through it came the

shining figure into the bedroom. .

One incredulous look was all Stulwig had time for. And many, many desperate

awarenesses: the glowing one, the being who shone with a fiery body brightness

was Vashanka.

By the time he had that thought, he had numbly grasped his stave. And, moments

later, was backing naked through the doorway that led out to the greenhouse.

Inside the bedroom a god was yelling in a deep, baritone voice at the nude

Amazon, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed. And the Amazon was yelling

back in a voice that was like that of a male tenor. They spoke in a language

that was not Ilsig.

In his time Stulwig had learned several hundred basic medically useful words in

half a dozen dialects of the Rankan empire. So now, after a few familiar words

had come through to him -suddenly, the truth.

The woman was Azyuma. And Vashanka was berating her for her infidelity. And she

was yelling back, accusing him of similar infidelities with human women.

The revelation dazzled Stulwig. So the gods, as had so often been suggested in

vague tales about them, were like humans in their physical needs. Fleshly

contacts. Angry arguments. Perhaps even intake of food with the consequent

digestion and elimination by stool and urination.

But much more important for this situation was the intimate act she had sought

with a human male … Trust a woman! thought Stulwig. Hating her incestuous

relationship. Degraded. Sad. Hopeless. But nevertheless jealous when her god

husband-brother went off to earth, and, as gods have done since the beginning of

time, lay with a human woman. Or two. Or a hundred.

So she had got even. Had taken the form of a human woman. And had cunningly

enticed a male – this time, himself; three and a half years ago, his father – to

lie with her. Not too difficult to do in lustful Sanctuary.

And thus, Ten-Slayer, in his jealous rage, had become Eleven-Slayer – if humans

like the elder Stulwig counted in the arithmetic of the divine ones.

Standing, now, in the centre of the greenhouse, with no way at all that he could

use as a quick escape (it always required a fair time to unbarricade his door)

Stulwig braced himself. Clutched his stave. And waited for he knew not what.

He grew aware, then, that the word battle in the bedroom had come to an ending.

The woman was standing now, hastily wrapping the S’danzo skirts around her huge

waist. That was a momentary revelation. So such skirts could fit all female

sizes without alteration.

Moments later, the woman came out. She had three of the filmy scarfs wrapped

around her upper body. Her eyes avoided looking at Stulwig as she thudded past

him on bare feet. And then he heard her at the door, removing the barricade.

That brought a sudden, wild hope to the man. Perhaps, if he backed in that

direction, he also might make it through the doorway, once it was unblocked.

But his belief was: he dared not move. Dared not turn his head. As Stulwig had

that tense realization, the brightness – which had been slightly out of his line

of vision – moved. There was an awesome sound of heavy, heavy footsteps. And

then – Vashanka strode into view.

There was no question in Stulwig’s numbed mind. What he was seeing, suddenly,

was clearly a sight not given to many men to observe so close up. The Rankan

god, Vashanka. Maker of lightning in the sky. Master of weaponry. Killer of ten

god-brothers. Murderer of Jutu Stulwig (father of Alton). The mighty being stood

now, poised in the doorway leading from the bedroom. And he literally had to

stoop down so that his head did not strike the top of the door jamb.

He was a massive figure whose every stretch and fold of skin was lit up like a

fire. The light that enveloped him from head to foot actually seemed to nicker,

as if tiny tongues of white heat were burning there.

Those innumerable fires suffused the greenhouse with a brightness greater than

daylight.

Clearly, a human confronted by a god should not rely on force alone. At no time

was that realization a coherent thought in Stulwig’s mind. But the awful truth

of it was there in his muscles and bones. Every movement he made reflected the

reality of a man confronting an overwhelming power.

Most desperately, he wanted to be somewhere, far away.

Which was impossible. And so-

Stulwig heard his voice stuttering out the first meaning of those defensive

thought-feelings: ‘I’m innocent. I didn’t know who she was.’

It was purpose of a desperate sort. Avoid this incredible situation by

explaining. Arguing. Proving.

The baleful eyes stared at him after he had spoken. If the being behind those

eyes understood the words, there was no clear sign.

The man stammered on: ‘She came as a sorceress with whom I had arranged a

rendezvous for this night. How could I know that it was a disguise?’

The Ilsig language, suddenly, did not seem to be a sufficient means of

communication. Stulwig had heard that its verbal structure was despised by

Rankans who had learned the speech of the conquered race. The verbs – it was

said – were regarded by Rankans as lacking force. Whereas the conqueror’s tongue

was alive with verbs that expressed intense feeling, absolute purpose, uttermost

determination.

Stulwig, fleetingly remembering those comparisons, had the thought: ‘To Vashanka

it will seem as if I’m begging for mercy, whereas all I want is understanding.’

Feeling hopeless, the man clung to his stave. It was all he had. So he held it

up between himself and the great fire-god. But each passing instant he was

recalling what Quag, the Hell Hound, had said – about Ils having failed his

people of Sanctuary.

Suddenly, it was hard to believe that the minor magic of a failed god, as

projected into a wooden stick – however tough the wood -could withstand even one

blow from the mighty Vashanka.

As he had that cringing thought, Stulwig grew aware that the god had extended

one hand. Instantly, the flame of the arm-hand grew brighter. Abruptly, it

leaped. And struck the stave.

Utter confusion of brightness.

And confusion in his dazzled eyes as to what was happening, or what had

happened.

Only one thing was clear: the attack of the god against the man had begun.

He was still alive; that was Stulwig’s first awareness. Alive with, now, a vague

memory of having seen the lightning strike the stave. And of hearing a base

voiced braying sound. But of what exactly had happened at the moment of the fire

interacting with the stave there was no after-image in his eyes.

Uncertain, still somehow clinging miraculously to the stave, Stulwig took

several steps backwards before the awful brightness let go of his vision

centres. And there, striding towards him, was the fire-god.

•’

Up came the stave, defensively. But even as he was remembering the words of

Cappen Varra, about holding the stave in front of him, Stulwig – the stave

fighter – instinctively swung the stave in a hitting motion.

Swung it at the great being less than five feet away. And felt a momentary

savage surge of hope, as mighty Vashanka actually ducked to avoid the blow.

Stave fighting! He had done a lot of it out there in the wilderness, where he

either tended wild herbs, or gathered herbs for his greenhouse. Amazing how

often a wandering nomad or two, seeing him alone, instantly unsheathed swords

and came in for the kill.

In such a battle it would be deathly dangerous merely to prod with the stave.

Used as a prod, the stave could be snatched. At which, it was merely a tussle of

two men tugging for possession. And virtual certainty that some wild giant of a

man would swiftly wrestle it away from the unwise person who had mistakenly

tried to use it as if it also were a sword.

By Ils – thought a jubilant Stulwig – there is power in this stave. And he, the

lightning-god, perceives it as dangerous.

With that realization, he began to swing with all the force he could muster:

whack, whack, whack! Forgot was Cappen Varra’s admonishment to use the stave

only as a barrier.

It was fascinating – and exciting – to Stulwig to notice that Vashanka jumped

back from the stave whenever it swung towards him. Once, the god actually leaped

way up to avoid being hit. The stave went by almost two foot-lengths beneath his

lowest extremity.

-But why is he staying? Why isn’t he trying to get away if the stave is

dangerous to him? … That thought came suddenly, and at once brought a great

diminishment to Stulwig’s battle impulse.

The fear that hit the man abruptly was that there had to be a reason why

Vashanka continued to fight by avoidance. Could it be that he expected the power

in the stave to wear off?

The awful possibility brought back the memory of what Ils-Cappen Varra had said.

The instant shock of what must already have happened to the stave’s defence

power sent Stulwig backing at top speed towards the hallway leading to the

stairs. He gulped with joy, then, as he glanced back for just an instant, and

saw that the normally barricaded door had been left wide open by Azyuna.

With that, he spun on his heels, and almost literally flung himself down the

stairs, taking four, and once five, steps at a time. He came to the bottom. And,

mercifully, that door also was open. It had been hard to see as he made his

“wild escape effort.

At that ultimate last moment, the entire stairwell suddenly lit up like day. And

there was instantly no question but that the demon-god had belatedly arrived,

and was in hot pursuit.

Out in that night, so dark near his entrance, Stulwig ran madly to. the nearest

corner. Darted around it. And then ran along the street until he came to a main

thoroughfare. There he stopped, took up position with his back against a closed

stall, and his stave in front of him.

Belated realization came that he was still stark naked.

There were people here even at this late hour. Some of them looked at Stulwig.

But almost everybody stopped and stared in the direction from which Stulwig had

come – where a great brightness shone into the sky, visible above a long, low

building with a dozen projecting towers.

Everywhere, now, voices were expressing amazement. And then, even as Stulwig

wondered if Vashanka would actually continue his pursuit – abruptly, the

brilliant light winked out.

It took a while, then, to gather his courage. But the feeling was: even though I

made the mistake of fighting, I won-

Returning took a while longer. Also, the streets were darker again; and so his

nakedness was not so obvious. Passersby had to come close before, in a city

where so many were skimpily dressed, they could see a naked man at night. Thus

he was able to act cautiously, without shame.

Finally, then, holding his stave in front of him, Stulwig climbed the stairs up

to his darkened quarters. Found the candle that was always lit (and replaced, of

course, at proper intervals) at the bottom of a long tube in his office. And

then, when he had made certain that the place was, indeed, free of intruders, he

hastily replaced the barricade.

A little later.

Stulwig lay sprawled on his bed, unable to sleep. He considered taking one of

the herbs he normally prescribed for light sleepers. But that might send him off

into a drugged unconsciousness. And for this night that seemed a last resort.

Not to be done casually.

Lying there, tossing, he grew aware that there were sounds coming to him out of

the night. Voices. Many voices. A crowd of voices.

Huh!

Up and over into the greenhouse. First, removing a shutter. And then, looking

out and down.

The streets that he could see from his second floor were alive with torchlights.

And, everywhere, people. Several times, as passersby went beneath his window,

Stulwig leaned out and called stentoriously: ‘What is it? What’s happening?’

From the replies that were yelled back, totalling at least as many as he could

count on the fingers of both hands, he was able to piece together the reason for

the celebration – for that was what it was.

The people of Sanctuary celebrating a victory.

What had occurred: beginning shortly after the brilliance of Vashanka had

dwindled to darkness in a puff of vanishment, messengers began to run along the

streets of the Maze and through all the lesser sections of the city.

The messengers were Jubal’s spies and informants. And as a result of the message

they spread –

Myrtis’s women whispered into the ears of males, as each in turn received that

for which he had paid. An electrifying piece of information it was, for the men

flung on their clothes, grabbed their weapons, and charged off into the night

distances of the Maze.

The worshippers at the bar of the Vulgar Unicorn suddenly drained their cups.

And they, also, took to their heels – that was the appearance. An astonished

barkeeper ventured to the door. Peered out. And, hearing the pad of feet and the

rustle of clothing, and seeing the torches, hastily locked up and joined the

throngs that were streaming in one direction: towards the temple of Ils.

From his open shutter Stulwig could see the temple with its gilded dome. All the

portions that he could see were lit up, and the light was visible through

numerous glass reflectors. A thousand candles must be burning inside for there

to be so many shining surfaces.

And inside the temple the priests were in a state of excitement. For the message

that Jubal’s informants carried to all Sanctuary was that Ils had engaged in

battle with the lightning god of the Rankans, and had won.

There would be exultant worshipping until the hour of dawn: that was the meaning

that Stulwig had had shouted up to him.

As the meaning finally came to him, Stulwig hastily closed the shutter. And

stood there, shivering. It was an inner cold, not an outer one. Was this wise?

he wondered. Suppose the people in the palace came out to learn what all the

uproar was? Suppose Vashanka, in his rage at being made to appear a loser, sent

his lightning bolts down upon the city. Come to think of it, the sky above had

already started to look very cloudy and threatening.

His entire body throbbing with anxiety, Stulwig nonetheless found himself

accepting the celebration as justified. It was true. Ils was the victor. And he

had deliberately sought the opportunity. So it could be that the ancient god of

Ilsig was at long last ready for – what?

What could happen? How could the forces of the Rankan empire be persuaded to

depart from Sanctuary?

Stulwig was back in bed, the wonder and the mystery of it still seething inside

him.

And he was still awake, later, when there came a gentle knock on his outer door.

Instant shock. Fear. Doubt. And then, trembling, he was at the vent asking the

question: ‘Who is it?’

The voice of Illyra answered softly, ‘I am here, Alten, as we agreed this

morning, to pay my debt in kind.’

Long pause. Because the doubt and shock, and the beginning of disappointment,

were absolutely intense. So long a pause that the woman spoke again: ‘My

blacksmith, as you call him, has gone to the temple of Ils and will not be back

until morning.’

On one level – the level of his desire – it had the ring of truth. But the

denying thought was stronger. Suppose this was Azyuna, forced by her shamed

brother-lover to make one more entrance into the home of the healer; so that the

brother could use some mysterious connection with her to penetrate hard walls.

Then, when death had been dealt, Ils would again be disgraced.

Thinking thus, a reluctant Stulwig said, ‘You are freed of your promise, Illyra.

Fate has worked once more to deny me one of the great joys of life. And once

more enabled you to remain faithful to that hulking monster.’

The healer uttered a long sigh; finished: ‘Perhaps, I shall have better fortune

next time.’

As he returned to his sheepskin he did have the male thought that a night when a

man made love to a goddess, could surely not be considered a total loss.

In fact-Remembering, suddenly, that the affair had also included embracing, in

its early stages, an Illyra look-alike, Stulwig began to relax. It was then that

sweet sleep came.

VASHANKA’S MINION

by Jante Morris

1

The storm swept down on Sanctuary in unnatural fury, as if to punish the thieves

for their misdeeds. Its hailstones were large as fists. They pummelled Wideway

and broke windows on the Street of Red Lanterns and collapsed the temple of Ils,

most powerful of the conquered Ilsigs’ gods.

The lightning it brought snapped up from the hills and down from the devilish

skies and wherever it spat the world shuddered and rolled. It licked round the

dome of Prince Kadakithis’s palace and when it was gone, the Storm God

Vashanka’s name was seared into the stone in huge hieratic letters visible from

the harbour. It slithered in the window of Jubal’s walled estate and circled

round the slavetrader’s chair while he sat in it, turning his black face blue

with terror.

It danced on a high hill between the slaver’s estate and the cowering town,

where a mercenary named Tempus schooled his new Syrese horse in the art of

death. He had bought the tarnished silver beast sight unseen, sending to a man

whose father’s life he had once saved.

‘Easy,’ he advised the horse, who slipped in a sharp turn, throwing mud up into

his rider’s face. Tempus cursed the mud and the rain and the hours he would need

to spend on his tack when the lesson was done. As for the screaming, stumbling

hawk-masked man who fled iron-shod hooves in ever-shortening circles, he had no

gods to invoke – he just howled.

The horse wheeled and hopped; its rider clung tightly, reins flapping loose,

using only his knees to guide his mount. If the slaver who kept a private army

must flaunt the fact, then the mercenary-cum-Guardsman would reduce its ranks.

He would teach Jubal the overweening flesh merchant that he who is too arrogant,

is lost. He saw it as part of his duty to the Ranke Prince-Governor he was sworn

to protect. Tempus had taken down a dozen hawk-masks. This one, stumbling,

gibbering, would make thirteen.

‘Kill,’ suggested the mercenary, tiring of his sport in the face of the storm.

The flattened ears of the misty horse flickered, came forwards. It lunged, neck

out. Teeth and hooves thunked into flesh. Screaming. Then screaming stopped.

Tempus let the horse pummel the corpse awhile, stroking the beast’s neck and

cooing soft praise. When bones showed in a lightning flash, he backed the horse

off and set it at a walk towards the walled city.

It was then that the lightning- came circling round man and mount.

‘Stand, stand.’ The horse, though he shook like a newborn foal, stood. The

searing red light violated Tempus’s tight-shut lids and made his eyes tear. An

awful voice rang inside his head, deep and thunderous: ‘ You are mine.’

‘I have never doubted it,’ grated the mercenary.

‘You have doubted it repeatedly,’ growled the voice querulously, if thunder can

be said to carp. ‘ You have been unruly, faithless, though you pledged Me your

troth. You have been, since you renounced your inheritance, a mage, a

philosopher, an auditing Adept of the Order of the Blue Star, a-‘

‘Look here. God. I have also been a cuckold, a footsoldier in the ranks, a

general at the end of that. I have bedded more iron in flesh than any ten other

men who have lived as long as I. Now You ring me round with thunder and compass

me with lightning though I am here to expand Your worship among these infidels.

I am building Your accursed temple as fast as I can. I am no priest, to be

terrified by loud words and bright manifestations. Get Thee hence, and leave

this slum unenlightened. They do not deserve me, and they do not deserve You!’

A gust sighed fiercely, flapping Tempus’s woollens against his mail beneath.

‘I have sent you hither to build Me a temple among the heathens, 0 sleepless

one! A temple you will build!’

‘A temple I will build. Yes, sir, Vashanka, lord of the Edge and the Point. If

You leave me alone to do it.’ Damn pushy tutelary god. ‘You blind my horse, 0

God, and I will put him under Your threshold instead of the enemies slain in

battle Your ritual demands. Then we will see who comes to worship there.’

‘Do not trifle with Me, Man.’

‘Then let me be. I am doing the best I can. There is no room for foreign gods in

the hearts of these Sanctuarites. The Ilsig gods they were born under have seen

to that. Do something amazing: strike the fear of You into them.’

‘I cannot even make you cower, 0 impudent human!’

‘Even Your visitations get old, after three hundred and fifty years. Go scare

the locals. This horse will founder, standing hot in the rain.’

The thunder changed its tune, becoming canny. ‘Go you to the harbour. My son,

and look upon what My Majesty hath wrought! And into the Maze, where I am making

My power known!’

With that, the corral of lightning vanished, the thunder ceased, and the clouds

blew away on a west wind, so that the full moon shone upon the land.

‘Too much krrf,’ the mercenary who had sold himself for a Hell Hound sighed.

‘Hell Hound’ was what the citizenry called the Prince’s Guard; as far as Tempus

was concerned. Sanctuary was Hell. The only thing that made it bearable was

krrf, his drug of choice. Rubbing a clammy palm across his mouth, he dug in his

human-hide belt until searching fingers found a little silver box he always

carried. Flipping it open, he took a pinch of black Caronne krrf and, clenching

his fist, piled the dust into the hollow between his first thumb joint and the

fleshy muscle leading to his knuckle. He sniffed deeply, sighed, and repeated

the process, inundating his other nostril.

‘Too much damn krrf,’ he chuckled, for the krrf had never been stepped on – he

did not buy adulterated drugs – and all six and a half feet of him tingled from

its kiss. One of these days he would have to stop using it – the same day he

laid down his sword.

He felt for its hilt, patted it. He had taken to calling it his ‘Wriggly-be

good’, since he had come to this godforsaken warren of magicians and changelings

and thieves. Then, the initial euphoria of the drug past, he kneed his horse

homewards.

It was the krrf, not the instructions of the lightning or any fear of Vashanka,

that made him go by way of the harbour. He was walking out his horse before

taking it to the stable the Hell Hounds shared with the barracks personnel. What

had ever possessed him to come down-country among the Ilsigs? It was not for his

fee, which was exorbitant, that he had come, for the sake of those interests in

the Rankan capital who underwrote him – those who hated the Emperor so much that

they were willing to back such a loser as Kadakithis, if they could do it

without becoming the brunt of too many jokes. It was not for the temple, though

he was pleased to build it. It was some old, residual empathy in Tempus for a

prince so inept as to be known far and wide as ‘Kitty’ which had made him come.

Tempus had walked away from his primogeniture in Azehur, a long time ago,

leaving the throne to his brother, who was not compromised by palace politics.

He had deposited a treatise on the nature of being in the temple of a favoured

goddess, and he had left. Had he ever, really, been that young? Young as Prince

Kadakithis, whom even the Wrigglies disparaged?

Tempus had been around in the days when (he Ilsigs had been the Enemy: the

Wrigglies. He had been on every battlefield in the Rankan/Ilsig conflict. He had

spitted more Ilsigs than most men, watched them writhe soundlessly until they

died. Some said he had coined their derogatory nickname, but he had not, though

he had doubtless helped spread it…

He rode down Wideway, and he rode past the docks. A ship was being made fast,

and a crowd had gathered round it. He squeezed the horse’s barrel, urging it

into the press. With only four of his fellow Hell Hounds in Sanctuary, and a

local garrison whose personnel never ventured out in groups of less than six, it

was incumbent upon him to take a look.

He did not like what he saw of the man who was being helped from the storm

wracked ship that had come miraculously to port with no sail intact, who

murmured through pale cruel lips to the surrounding Ilsigs, then climbed into a

Rankan litter bound for the palace.

He spurred the horse. ‘Who?’ he demanded of the eunuch-master whose path he

suddenly barred.

‘Aspect, the archmage,’ lisped the palace lackey, ‘if it’s any business of

yours.’

Behind the lackey and the quartet of ebony slaves the shoulder-borne litter

trembled. The viewcurtain with Kitty’s device on it was drawn back, fell loose

again.

‘Out of my way. Hound,’ squeaked the enraged little pastry of a eunuch-master.

‘Don’t get flapped, Eunice,’ said Tempus, wishing he were in Caronne, wishing he

had never met a god, wishing he were anywhere else. Oh, Kitty, you have done it

this time. Alain Aspect, yet! Alchemist extraordinaire, assassin among

magicians, dispeller of enchantments, in a town that ran on contract sorcery?

‘Back, back, back,’ he counselled the horse, who twitched its ears and turned

its head around reproachfully, but obeyed him.

He heard titters among the eunuchs, another behind in the crowd. He swung round

in his saddle. ‘Hakiem, if I hear any stories about me I do not like, I will

know whose tongue to hang on my belt.’

The bent, news-nosed storyteller, standing amid the children who always

clustered round him, stopped laughing. His rheumy eyes met Tempus’s. ‘I have a

story I would like to tell you. Hell Hound. One you would like to hear, I humbly

imagine.’

‘What is it, then, old man?’

‘Come closer. Hell Hound, and say what you will pay.’

‘How can I tell you how much it’s worth until I hear?’ The horse snorted, raised

his head, sniffed a rank, evil breeze come suddenly from the stinking Downwind

beach.

‘We must haggle.’

‘Somebody else, then, old man. I have a long night ahead.’ He patted the horse,

watching the crowd ofllsigs surging round, their heads level with his hips.

‘That is the first time I have seen him backed off!’: a stage-whisper reached

Tempus through the buzz of the crowd. He looked for the source of it, could not

find one culprit more likely than the rest. There would be a lot more of that

sort of talk, when word spread. But he did not interfere with sorcerers. Never

again. He had done it once, thinking his tutelary god could protect him. His

hand went to his hip, squeezed. Beneath his dun woollens and beneath his ring

mail he wore a woman’s scarf. He never took it off. It was faded and it was

ragged and it reminded him never to argue with a warlock. It was all he had left

of her, who had been the subject of his dispute with a mage.

Long ago in Azehur…

He sighed, a rattling sound, in a voice hoarse and gravelly from endless

battlefield commands. ‘Have it your way tonight, then, Wriggly. And hope you

live ’til morning.’ He named a price. The storyteller named another. The

difference was split.

The old man came close and put his hand on the horse’s neck. ‘The lightning came

and the thunder rolled and when it was gone the temple of Ils was no more. The

Prince has bought the aid of a mighty enchanter, whom even the bravest of the

Hell Hounds fears. A woman was washed up naked and half drowned on the

Downwinders’ beach and in her hair were pins of diamond.’

‘Pins?’

‘Rods, then.’

‘Wonderful. What else?’

‘The redhead from Amoli’s Lily Garden died at moonrise.’

He knew very well what whore the old man meant. He did not like the story, so

far. He growled. ‘You had better astound me, quick, for the price you’re

asking.’

‘Between the Vulgar Unicorn and the tenement on the corner an entire building

appeared on that vacant lot, where once the Black Spire stood – you know the

one.’

‘I know it.’

‘Astounding?’

‘Interesting. What else?’

‘It is rather fancy, with a gilded dome. It has two doors, and above them two

signs that read, “Men”, and “Women”.’

Vashanka had kept his word, then.

‘Inside it, so the patrons of the Unicorn say, they sell weapons. Very special

weapons. And the price is dear.’

‘What has this to do with me?’

‘ Some folk who have gone in there have not come out. And some have come out and

turned one upon the other, duelling to the death. Some have merely slain

whomsoever crossed their paths. Yet, word is spreading, and Ilsig and Rankan

queue up like brothers before its doors. Since some of those who were standing

in line were hawk-masks, I thought it good that you should know.’

‘I am touched, old man. I had no idea you cared.’ He threw the copper coins to

the storyteller’s feet and reined the horse sideways so abruptly it reared. When

its feet touched the ground, he set it at a collected canter through the crowd,

letting the rabble scatter before its iron-shod hooves as best they might.

2

In Sanctuary, enchantment ruled. No sorcerer believed in gods. But they believed

in the Law of Correspondences, and they believed in evil. Thus, since every

negative must have its positive, they implied gods. Give a god an inch and he

will take your soul. That was what the commoners and the second-rate

prestidigitators lined up outside the Weaponshop of Vashanka did not realize,

and that was why no respectable magician or Hazard Class Enchanter stood among

them.

In they filed, men to Tempus’s left, towards the Vulgar Unicorn, and women to

his right, towards the tenement on the corner.

Personally, Tempus did not feel it wise or dignified for a god to engage in a

commercial venture. From across the street, he took notes on who came and went.

Tempus was not sure whether he was going in there, or not.

A shadow joined the queue, disengaged, walked towards the Vulgar Unicorn in the

tricky light of fading stars. It saw him, hesitated, took one step back.

Tempus leaned forwards, his elbow on his pommel, and crooked a finger. ‘Hanse, I

would like a word with you.’

The youth cat-walked towards him, errant torch-light from the Unicorn’s open

door twinkling on his weapons. From ankle to shoulder, Shadowspawn bristled with

armaments.

‘What is it with you, Tempus? Always on my tail. There are bigger frogs than

this one in Sanctuary’s pond.’

‘Are you not going to buy anything tonight?’

‘I’ll make do with what I have, thanks. I do not swithe with sorcerers.’

‘Steal something for me?’ Tempus whispered, leaning down. The boy had black

hair, black eyes, and blacker prospects in this desperadoes’ demesne.

‘I’m listening.’

‘ Two diamond rods from the lady who came out of the sea tonight.’

‘Why?’

‘I won’t ask you how, and you won’t ask me why, or we’ll forget it.’ He sat up

straight in his saddle.

‘Forget it, then,’ toughed Shadowspawn, deciding he wanted nothing to do with

this Hell Hound.

‘Call it a prank, a jest at the expense of an old girlfriend.’

The thief edged around where Tempus could not see him, into a dapple of deepest

dark. He named a price.

The Hell Hound did not argue. Rather, he paid half in advance.

‘I’ve heard you don’t really work for Kitty. I’ve heard your dues to the

mercenaries’ guild are right up to date, and that Kitty knows better than to

give you any orders. If you are not arguing about my price, it must be too low.’

Silence.

‘Is it true that you roughed up that whore who died tonight? That Amoli is so

afraid of you that you do whatever you want in her place and never pay?’

Tempus chuckled, a sound like the cracking of dry ice. ‘I will take you there,

when you deliver, and you can see for yourself what I do.’

There was no answer from the shadows, just a skittering of stones.

Yes, I will take you there, young one. And yes, you are right. About everything.

You should have asked for more.

3

Tempus lingered there still, eating a boxed lunch from the Unicorn’s kitchen,

when a voice from above his head said, ‘The deal is off. That girl is a

sorceress, if a pretty one. I’ll not chance ensorcel-ment to lift baubles I

don’t covet, and for a pittance!’

Girl? The woman was nearly his own age, unless another set of diamond rods

existed, and he doubted that. He yawned, not reaching up to take the purse that

dangled over the lee of the roof, ‘I am disappointed. I thought Shadowspawn

could steal.’

The innuendo was not lost on the invisible thief. The purse was withdrawn. An

impalpable something told him he was once again alone, but for the clients of

Vashanka’s Weaponshop. Things would be interesting in Sanctuary, for a good

little while to come. He had counted twenty-three purchasers able to walk away

with their mystical armaments. Four had died while he watched, intrigued.

It was possible that a career Hell Hound such as Zaibar might have intervened.

But Tempus wore Vashanka’s amulet about his neck, and, if he did not agree with

Him, he would at least bear with his god.

The woman he was waiting for showed there at dusk. He liked dusk; he liked it

for killing and he liked it for loving. Sometimes if he was very lucky, the dusk

made him tired and he could nap. A man who has been cursed by an archmage and

pressed into service by a god does not sleep much. Sleep was something he chased

like other men chased women. Women, in general, bored him, unless they were

taken in battle, or unless they were whores.

This woman, her black hair brushing her doeskin-clad shoulders, was an

exception.

He called her name, very softly. Then again: ‘Cime.’ She turned, and at last he

was sure. He had thought Hakiem could mean no other: he had not been wrong.

Her eyes were grey as his horse. Silver shot her hair, but she was yet comely.

Her hands rose, hesitated, covered a mouth pretending to hardness and tight with

fear. He recognized the aborted motion other hands: towards her head, forgetful

that the rods she sought were no longer there.

He did not move in his saddle, or speak again. He let her decide, glance quickly

about the street, then come to him.

When her hand touched the horse’s bridle, he said: ‘It bites.’

‘Because you taught it to. It will not bite me.’ She held it by the muzzle,

squeezing the pressure points that rode the skin there. The horse raised his

head slightly, moaned, and stood shivering.

‘What seek you in there?’ He inclined his head towards Vashanka’s; a lock of

copper hair fell over one eye.

‘The tools of my trade were stolen.’

‘Have you money?’

‘Some. Not enough.’

‘Come with me.’

‘Never again.’

‘You have kept your vow, then?’

‘I slay sorcerers. I cannot suffer any man to touch me except a client. I dare

no love; I am chaste of heart.’

‘All these aching years?’

She smiled. It pulled her mouth in hard at its corners and he saw ageing no

potion or cosmetic spell could hide. ‘Every one. And you? You did not take the

Blue Star, or I would see it on your brow. What discipline serves your will?’

‘None. Revenge is fruitless. The past is only alive in us. I am not meant for

sorcery. I love logic too well.’

‘So, you are yet damned?’

‘If that is what you call it, I suppose – yes. I work for the Storm God,

sometimes. I do a lot of wars.’

‘What brought you here, Cle-‘

‘Tempus, now. It keeps me in perspective. I am building a temple for Him.’ He

pointed to Vashanka’s Weaponshop, across the street. His finger shook. He hoped

she had not seen. ‘You must not ply your trade here. I have employment as a Hell

Hound. Appearances must be preserved. Do not pit us against one another. It

would be too sour a memory.’

‘For whomever survived? Can it be you love me still?’ Her eyes were full of

wonder.

‘No,’ he said, but cleared his throat. ‘Stay out of there. I know His service

well. I would not recommend it. I will get you back what you have lost. Meet me

at the Lily Garden tonight at midnight, and you will have them. I promise. Just

take down no sorcerers between now and then. If you do, I will not return them,

and you cannot get others.’

‘Bitter, are you not? If I do what you are too weak to do, what harm is there in

that?’ Her right eyebrow raised. It hurt him to watch her.

‘We are the harm. And we are the harmed, as well. I am afraid that you may have

to break your fast, so be prepared. I will reason with myself, but I promise

nothing.’

She sighed. ‘I was wrong. You have not changed one bit.’

‘Let go of my horse.’

She did.

He wanted to tell her to let go of his heart, but he was struck mute. He wheeled

his mount and clattered down the street. He had no intention of leaving. He just

waited in a nearby alley until she was gone.

Then he hailed a passing soldier, and sent a message to the palace.

When the sun danced above the Vulgar Unicorn’s improbably engaged weather vane,

support troops arrived, and Kadakithis’s new warlock. Aspect, was with them.

‘Since last night, and this is the first report you have seen -fit to make?’ The

sorcerer’s pale lips flushed. His eyes burned within his shadowed cowl.

‘I hope you and Kadakithis had a talk.’

‘We did, we did. You are not still angry at the world after all these years?’

‘I am yet living. I have your kind to blame or thank, whichever.’

‘Do you not think it strange that we have been thrown together as – equals?’

‘I think that is not the right word for it. Aspect. What are you about, here?’

‘Now, now. Hell Hound-‘ .”

‘Tempus.’

‘Yes, Tempus. You have not lost your fabled sense of irony. I hope it is a

comfort.’

‘Quite, actually. Do not interfere with the gods, guildbrother of my nemesis.’

‘Our prince is justifiably worried. Those weapons-‘

‘-equal out the balance between the oppressors and the oppressed. Most of

Sanctuary cannot afford your services, or the prices of even the lowliest

members of the Enchanters’ Guild. Let it be. We will get the weapons back, as

their wielders meet their fates.’

‘I have to report to Kitt – to K-adakithis.’

‘Then report that I am handling it.’ Behind the magician, he could see the ranks

whispering. Thirty men, the archmage had brought. Too many.

‘You and I have more in common than in dispute, Tempus. Let us join forces.’

‘I would sooner bed an Ilsig matron.’

‘Well, I am going in there.’ The archmage shook his head and the cowl fell back.

He was pretty, ageless, a blond. ‘With or without you.’

‘Be my guest,’ Tempus offered.

The archmage looked at him strangely. ‘We do the same services in the world, you

and I. Killing, whether with natural or supernatural weapons, is still killing.

You are no better than I.’

‘Assuredly not, except that I will outlive you. And I will make sure you do not

get your requisite burial ritual.’

‘You would not!’

‘Like you said, I yet bear my grudge – against every one of you.’

With a curse that made the ranks clap their hands to their helmeted ears, the

archmage swished into the street, across it, and through the door marked ‘Men’

without another word. It was his motioned command which made the troops follow.

A waitress Tempus knew came out when the gibbous moon was high, to ask him if he

was hungry. She brought him fish and he ate it, watching the doors.

When he had just about finished, a terrible rumble crawled up the street,

tremors following in its wake. He slid from his horse and held its muzzle, and

the reins up under its bit. The doors of Vashanka’s Weaponshop grew shimmery,

began taking colour. Above, the moon went behind a cloud. The little dome on

the” shop rocked, grew cracks, crazed, steamed. The doors were ruby red, and

melting. Awful wails and screams and the smell of sulphur and ozone filled the

night.

Patrons began streaming out of the Vulgar Unicorn, drinks in hand. They stayed

well back from the rocking building, which howled as it stressed larger, growing

turgid, effluescing spectrums which sheeted and snapped and snarled. The doors

went molten white, then they were gone. A figure was limned in the left-hand

doorway, and it was trying to climb empty air. It flamed and screeched, dancing,

crumbling, facing the street but unable to pass the invisible barrier against

which it pounded. It stank: the smell of roasting flesh was overwhelming. Behind

it, helmets crumpled, dripped on to the contorted faces of soldiers whose

moustaches had begun to flare.

The mage who tried to break down the invisible door had no fists; he had pounded

them away. The ranks were char and ash in infalling effigy of damnation. The

doors which had been invisible began to cool to white, then to gold, then to

red.

The street was utterly silent. Only the snorts of his horse and the squeals of

the domed structure could be heard. The squeals fell off to growls and shudders.

The doors cooled, turned dark.

People muttered, drifted back into the Unicorn with mumbled wardings, tracing

signs and taking many backward looks.

Tempus, who could have saved thirty innocent soldiers and one guilty magician,

got out his silver box and sniffed some krrf.

He had to be at the Lily Garden soon.

When he got there, the mixed elation of drug and death had faded.

What if Shadowspawn did not appear with the rods? What if the girl Cime did not

come to get them back? What if he still could hurt, as he had not hurt for more

than three hundred years?

He had had a message from the palace, from Prince Kadakithis himself. He was not

going up there, just yet. He did not want to answer any questions about the

archmage’s demise. He did not want to appear involved. His only chance to help

the Prince-Governor effectively lay in working his own way. Those were his

terms, and under those terms Kitty’s supporters in the Rankan capital had

employed him to come down here and play Hell Hound and see what he would do.

There were no wars, anywhere. He had been bored, his days stretching out never

ending, bleak. So he had concerned himself with Kitty, for something to do. The

building of Vashanka’s temple he oversaw for himself more than Kadakithis, who

understood the necessity of elevating the state cult above the Ilsig gods, but

believed only in wizardry, and his noble Ranke blood.

He was not happy about the spectacle at Vashanka’s Weapon-shop. Sloppy business,

this side-show melting and unmelting. The archmage must have been talented, to

make his struggles visible to those outside.

Wisdom is to know the thought which steers all things through all things, a

friend of his who was a philosopher had once said to him. The thought that was

steering all things through Sanctuary was muddled, unclear.

That was the hitch, the catch, the problem with employing the supernatural in a

natural milieu. Things got confused. With so many spells at work, the fabric of

causality was overly strained. Add the gods, and Evil and Good faced each other

across a board game whose extent was the phenomenal world. He wished the gods

would stay in their heavens and the sorcerers in their hells.

Oh, he had heard endless persiflage about simultaneity; iteration – the constant

redefining of the now by checking it against the future-; alchemical laws of

consonance. When he had been a student of philosophy and Cime had been a maiden,

he had learned the axiom that Mind is unlimited and self-controlled, but all

other things are connected; that nothing is completely separated off from any

other thing, nor are things divided one from the other, except Mind.

The sorcerers put it another way: they called the consciousness of all things

into service, according to the laws of magic.

Not philosophy, nor theology, nor thaumaturgy held the answer for Tempus; he had

turned away from them, each and all. But he could not forget what he had

learned.

And none of the adepts like to admit that no servitor can be hired without

wages. The wages of unnatural life are unnatural death.

He wished he could wake up in Azehur, with his family, and know that he had

dreamed this impious dream.

But instead he came to Amoli’s whorehouse, the Lily Garden. Almost, but not

quite, he rode the horse up its stairs. Resisting the temptation, he reflected

that in every age he had ever studied, doom-criers abounded. No millenium is

attractive to the man immured in it; enough prophecies have been made in

antiquity that one who desires, in any age, to take the position that Apocalypse

is at hand can easily defend it. He would not join that dour Order; he would not

worry about anything but Tempus, and the matter awaiting his attention.

Inside Amoli’s, Hanse the thief sat in full swagger, a pubescent girl on each

knee.

‘Ah,’ he waved. ‘I have something for you.’ Shadowspawn tumbled both girls off

of him, and stood, stretching widely, so that every arm-dagger and belted

sticker and thigh-sheath creaked softly. The girls at his feet stayed there,

staring up at Tempus wide-eyed. One whimpered to Shadowspawn and clutched his

thigh.

‘Room key,’ Tempus snapped to no one in particular, and held out his hand. The

concierge, not Amoli, brought it to him.

‘Hanse?’

‘Coming.’ He extended a hand to one girl.

‘Alone.’

‘You are not my type,’ said the thief, suspicious.

‘I need just a moment of your evening. You can do what you wish with the rest.’

Tempus looked at the key, headed off towards a staircase leading to the room

which bore a corresponding number.

He heard the soft tread of Shadowspawn close behind.

When the exchange had been made, the thief departed, satisfied with both his

payment and his gratuity, but not quite sure that Tempus appreciated the trouble

to which he had put himself, or that he had got the best of the bargain they had

made.

He saw the woman he had robbed before she saw him, and ended up in a different

girl’s room than the one he had chosen, in order to avoid a scene. When he had

heard her steps pass by, stop before the door behind which the big Hell Hound

waited, he made preclusive threats to the woman whose mouth he had stopped with

the flat of his hand, and slipped downstairs to spend his money somewhere else,

discreetly.

If he had stayed, he might have found out what the diamond rods were really

worth; he might have found out what the sour-eyed mercenary with his high brow,

suddenly so deeply creased, and his lightly carried mass, which seemed tonight

too heavy, was worried about. Or perhaps he could have fathomed Tempus’s

enigmatic parting words: ‘I would help you if I could, backstreeter,’ Tempus had

rumbled.

‘If I had met you long ago, or if you liked horses, there would be a chance. You

have done me a great service. More than that pouch holds. I am seldom in any

man’s debt, but you, I own, can call me anytime.’

‘You paid me. Hell Hound. I am content,’ Hanse had demurred, confused by

weakness where he had never imagined it might dwell. Then he saw the Hell Hound

fish out a snuffbox of krrf, and thought he understood.

But later, he went back to Amoli’s and hung around the steps, cautiously petting

the big man’s horse, the krrf he had sniffed making him willing to dodge the

beast’s square, yellow teeth.

4

She had come to him, had Cime. She was what she was, what she had always been.

It was Tempus who was changed: Vashanka had entered into him, the Storm God who

was Lord of Weapons who was Lord of Rape who was Lord of War who was Lord of

Death’s Gate.

He could not take her, gently. So spoke not his physical impotence, as he might

have expected, but the cold wash of wisdom: he would not despoil her; Vashanka

would accept no less.

She knocked and entered and said, ‘Let me see them,’ so sure he would have the

stolen diamonds that her fingers were already busy on the lacings of her Ilsig

leathers.

He held up a hide-wrapped bundle, slimmer than her wrist, shorter than her

forearm. ‘Here. How were they thieved?’

‘Your voice is hoarser than I have ever heard it,’ she replied, and: ‘I needed

money; there was this man … actually, there were a few, but there was a tough,

a streetbrawler. I should have known – he is half my apparent age. What would

such as he want with a middle-aged whore? And he agreed to pay the price I

asked, without quibbling. Then he robbed me.’ She looked around, her eyes, as he

remembered them, clear windows to her thoughts. She was appalled.

‘The low estate into which I have sunk?’

She knew what he meant. Her nostrils shivered, taking in the musty reek of the

soiled bedding on which he sprawled fully clothed, smelling easily as foul. ‘The

devolution of us both. That I would be here, under these circumstances, is

surely as pathetic as you.’

‘Thanks. I needed that. Don’t.’

‘I thought you wanted me.’ She ceased unlacing, looked at him, her tunic open to

her waist.

‘I did. I don’t. Have some krrf.’ On his hips rode her scarf; if she saw it,

then she would comprehend his degradation too fully. So he had not removed it,

hoping its presence would remind him, if he weakened and his thoughts drowned in

lust, that this woman he must not violate.

She sat on the quilt, one doe-gloved leg tucked under her.

‘You jest,’ she breathed, then, eyes narrowed, took the krrf.

‘It will be ill with you, afterwards, should I touch you.’

Her fingers ran along the flap of hide wrapped over her wands. ‘I am receiving

payment.’ She tapped the package. ‘And I may not owe debts.’

‘The boy who pilfered these, did it at my behest.’

‘Must you pander for me?’

He winced. ‘Why do you not go home?’ She smelled of salt and honey and he

thought desperately that she was here only because he forced the issue: to pay

her debt.

She leaned forwards, touched his lips with a finger. ‘For the same reason that

you do not. Home is changed, gone to time.’

‘Do you know that?’ He jerked his head-away, cracking it against the bed’s

wooden headboard.

‘I believe it.’

‘I cannot believe anything, any more. I surely cannot believe that your hand is

saying what it seems to be saying.’

‘I cannot,’ she said, between kisses at his throat he could not, somehow, fend

off, ‘leave … with … debts … owing.’

‘Sorry,’ he said firmly, and got out from under her hands. ‘I am just not in the

mood.’

She shrugged, unwrapped the wands, and wound her hair up with them. ‘Surely, you

will regret this, later.’

‘Maybe you are right,’ he sighed heavily. ‘But that is my problem. I release you

from any debt. We are even. I remember past gifts, given when you still knew how

to give freely.’ There was no way in the world he was going to hurt her. He

would not strip before her. With those two constraints, he had no option. He

chased her out of there. He was as cruel about it as he could manage to be, for

both their sakes.

Then he yelled downstairs for service.

When he descended the steps in the cool night air, a movement startled him, on

the grey’s off side.

‘It is me, Shadowspawn.’

‘It is I, Shadowspawn,’ he corrected, huskily. His face averted, he mounted from

the wrong side. The horse whickered disapprovingly. ‘What is it, snipe?’

As clouds covered the moon, Tempus seemed to pull all night’s shadows round him.

Hanse might have the name, but this Tempus had the skill. Hanse shivered. There

were no Shadow Lords any longer … ‘I was admiring your horse. Bunch of hawk

masks rode by, saw the horse, looked interested. I looked proprietary. The horse

looked mean. The hawk-masks rode away. I just thought I’d see if you showed

soon, and let you know.’

A movement at the edge of his field of vision warned him, even as the horse’s

ears twitched at the click of iron on stone. ‘You should have kept going, it

seems,’ said Tempus quietly, as the first of the hawk-masks edged his horse out

past the intersection, and others followed. Two. Three. Four. Two more.

‘Mothers,’ whispered Cudgel Swearoath’s prodigy, embarrassed at not having

realized that he was not the only one waiting for Tempus.

‘This is not your fight, junior.’

‘I’m aware of that. Let’s see if they are.’

Blue night: blue hawk-masks: the sparking thunder of six sets of hooves rushing

towards the two of them. Whickering. The gleam of frothing teeth and bared

weapons: iron clanging in a jumble of shuddering, straining horses. The kill

trained grey’s challenge to another stallion: hooves thudding on flesh and great

mouths gaped, snapping; a blaring death-clarion from a horse whose jugular had

been severed. Always watching the boy: keeping the grey between the hawk-masks

and a thief who just happened to get involved; who just happened to kill two of

them with thrown knives, one through an eye and the other blade he recalled

clearly, sticking out of a slug-white throat. Tempus would remember even the

whores’ ambivalent screams of thrill and horror, delight and disgust. He had

plenty of time to sort it out: Time to draw his own sword, to target the rider

of his choice, feel his hilt go warm and pulsing in his hand. He really did

not like to take unfair advantage. The iron sword glowed pink like a baby’s

skin or a just-born day. Then it began to react in his grip. The grey’s

reins, wrapped around the pommel, flapped loosely; he told it where he wanted

it with gritted words, with a pressing knee, with his shifting weight. One hawk

-mask had a greenish tinge to him: protected. Tempus’s sword would not listen

to such talk: it slit charms like butter, armour like silk. A blue wing

whistled above his head, thrown by a compatriot of the man who fell so

slowly with his guts pouring out over his saddle like cold molasses. While

that hawk-mask’s horse was in mid-air between two strides, Tempus’s sword

licked up and changed the colour of the foe-seeking boomerang. Pink, now, not

blue. He was content to let it return its death to the hand that threw it. That

left just two.

One had the thief engaged, and the youth had drawn his wicked, twenty-inch

Ibarsi knife, too short to be more than a temporizer against the hawk-mask’s

sword, too broad to be thrown. Backed against the Lily Garden’s wall, there was

just time for Tempus to flicker the horse over there and split the hawk-mask’s

head down to his collarbones. Grey brains splattered him.. The thrust of the

hawk-mask, undiminished by death, shattered on the flat of the long, curved

knife Shadowspawn held up in a two-fisted, desperate block.

‘Behind you!’

Tempus had known the one last hawk-mask was there. But this was not the boy’s

battle. Tempus had made a choice. He ducked and threw his weight sideways,

reining the horse down with all his might. The sword, a singing one, sonata’d

over his head, shearing hairs. His horse, overbalanced, fell heavily, screaming,

pitching, rolling onto his left leg. Pinned for an instant, he saw white

anguish, then the last hawk-mask was leaping down to finish him, and the grey

scrambled to its feet. ‘Kill,’ he shouted, his blade yet at ready, but lying in

the dirt. His leg flared once again, then quieted. He tried it, gained his

knees, dust in his eyes. The horse reared and lunged. The hawk-mask struck

blindly, arms above his head, sword reaching for grey, soft underbelly. He tried

to save it. He tried. He tackled the hawk-mask with the singing sword. Too late,

too late: horse fluids showered him. Bellows of agony pealed in his ears. The

horse and the hawk-mask and Tempus went down together, thrashing.

When Tempus sorted it out, he allowed that the horse had killed the hawk-mask at

the same time the hawk-mask had disembowelled the horse.

But he had to finish it. It lay there thrashing pathetically, deep groans coming

from it. He stood over it uncertainly, then knelt and stroked its muzzle. It

snapped at him, eyes rolling, demanding to die. He acceded, and the dust in his

eyes hurt so much they watered profusely.

Its legs were still kicking weakly when he heard a movement, turned on his good

leg, and stared.

Shadowspawn was methodically stripping the hawk-masks of their arms and

valuables.

Hanse did not notice Tempus, as he limped away. Or he pretended he did not.

Whichever, there was nothing left to say.

5

When he reached the Weaponshop, his leg hardly pained him. It was numb; it no

longer throbbed. It would heal flawlessly, as any wound he took always healed.

Tempus hated it.

Up to the Weaponshop’s door he strode, as the dawn spilled gore onto Sanctuary’s

alleys.

He kicked it; it opened wide. How he despised supernal battle, and himself when

his preternatural abilities came into play.

‘Hear me, Vashanka! I have had enough! Get this sidewalk stand out of here!’

There was no answer. Within, everything was dim as dusk, dim as the pit of

unknowingness which spawned day and night and endless striving.

There were no weapons here for him to see, no counter, no proprietor, no rack of

armaments pulsing and humming expectantly. But then, he already had his. One to

a customer was the rule: one body; one mind; one swing through life.

He trod mists tarnished like the grey horse’s coat. He trod a long corridor with

light at its ending, pink like new beginnings, pink like his iron sword when

Vashanka lifted it by Tempus’s hand. He shied away from his duality; a man does

not look closely at a curse of his own choosing. He was what he was, vessel of

his god. But he had his own body, and that particular body was aching; and he

had his own mind, and that particular mind was dank and dark like the dusk and

the dusty death he dealt.

‘Where are You, Vashanka, 0 Slaughter Lord?’

Right here, resounded the voice within his head. But Tempus was not going to

listen to any internal voice. Tempus wanted confrontation.

‘Materialize, you bastard!’

I already have; one body; one mind; one life – in every sphere.

‘I am not you!’ Tempus screamed through clenched teeth, willing firm footing

beneath his sinking feet.

No, you are not. But I am you, sometimes, said the nimbus-wreathed figure

striding towards him over gilt-edged clouds. Vashanka: so very tall with hair

the colour of yarrow honey and a high brow free from lines.

‘Oh, no…’

You wanted to see Me. Look upon Me, servant!

‘Not so close, Pillager. Not so much resemblance. Do not torture me, My God! Let

me blame it all on You – not be You!’

So many years, and you yet seek self-delusion?

‘Definitely. As do You, if You think to gather worshippers in this fashion! 0

Berserker God, You cannot roast their mages before them: they are all dependent

on sorcery. You cannot terrify them thus, and expect them to come to You.

Weapons will not woo them; they are not men of the armies. They are thieves, and

pirates, and prostitutes! You have gone too far, and not far enough!’

Speaking of prostitutes, did you see your sister? Look at Me!

Tempus had to obey. He faced the manifestation of Vashanka, and recalled that he

could not take a woman in gentleness, that he could but war. He saw his battles,

ranks parading in endless eyes of storm and blood bath. He saw the Storm God’s

consort, His own sister whom He raped eternally, moaning on Her couch in anguish

that Her blood brother would ravish Her so.

Vashanka laughed.

Tempus snarled wordlessly through frozen lips.

You should have let us have her.

‘Never!’ Tempus howled. Then: ‘0 God, leave off! You are not increasing Your

reputation among these mortals, nor mine! This was an ill-considered venture

from the outset. Go back to Your heaven and wait. I will build Your temple

better without Your maniacal aid. You have lost all sense of proportion. The

Sanc-tuarites will not worship one who makes of their town a battlefield!’

Tempus, do not be wroth with Me. I have My own troubles, you know. I have to get

away every now and again. And you have not been warring, whined the god, for so

very long. I am bored and I am lonely.

‘And You have caused the death of my horse!’ Tempus spat, and broke free of

Vashanka, wrenching his mind loose from the mirror mind of his god with an

effort of will greater than any he had ever mounted before. He turned in his

steps and began to retrace them. The god called to him over his shoulder, but he

did not look back. He put his feet in the smudges they had left in the clouds as

he had walked among them, and the farther he trudged, the more substantial those

clouds became.

He trekked into lighter darkness, into a soft, new sunrise, into a pink and

lavender morning which was almost Sanctuary’s. He continued to walk until the

smell of dead fish and Downwind pollution assailed his nostrils. He strode on,

until a weed tripped him and he fell to his knees in the middle of a damp and

vacant lot.

He heard a cruel laugh, and as he looked up he was thinking that he had not made

it back at all – that Vashanka was not through punishing him.

But to his right was the Vulgar Unicorn, to his left the palimpsest tenement

wall. And before him stood one of the palace eunuchs, come seeking him with a

summons from Kittycat to discuss what might be done about the Weaponshop said to

be manifesting next to the Vulgar Unicorn.

‘Tell Kadakithis,’ said Tempus, arduously gaining his feet, ‘that I will be

there presently. As you can see…’ He waved around him, where no structure

stood or even could be proved ever to have stood ‘… there is no longer any

Weaponshop. Therefore, there is no longer any problem, nor any urgency to attend

to it. There is, however, one very irritable Hell Hound in this vacant lot who

wants to be left alone.’

The blue-black eunuch exposed perfect, argent teeth. ‘Yes, yes, master,’ he

soothed the honey-haired man. ‘I can see that this is so.’

Tempus ignored the eunuch’s rosy, outstretched palm, and his sneer at the Hell

Hound pretending to negotiate the humpy turf without pain. Accursed Wriggly!

As the round-rumped eunuch sauntered off, Tempus decided the Vulgar Unicorn

would do as well as any place to sit and sniff krrf and wait for his leg to

finish healing. It ought to take about an hour – unless Vashanka was more angry

at him than he estimated, in which case it might take a couple of days.

Shying from that dismal prospect, he pursued diverse thoughts. But he fared

little better. Where he was going to get another horse like the one he had lost,

he could not conjecture, any more than he could recall the exact moment when the

last dissolving wisps of Vashanka’s Weaponshop blurred away into the mists of

dawn.

SHADOW’S PAWN

By Andrew J. Offutt

She was more than attractive and she walked with head high in pride and

awareness of her womanhood. The bracelet on her bare arm flashed and seemed to

glow with that brightness the gods reserve for polished new gold. She should

have been walking amid bright lights illuminating the dancing waters of a

fountain, turning its sparkling into a million diamonds and, with the aid of a

bit of refraction, colourful other gemstones as well.

There was no fountain down here by the fish market, and the few lights were not

bright. She did not belong here. She was stupid to be here, walking unescorted

so late at night. She was stupid. Stupidity had its penalties; it did not pay.

Still, the watching thief appreciated the stupidity of others. It did pay; it

paid him. He made his living by it, by his own cleverness and the stupidity of

others. He was about to go to work. Even at the reduced price he would receive

from a changer, that serpent-carved bracelet would feed him well. It would keep

him, without the necessity of more such hard work as this damnable lurking,

waiting, for – oh, probably a month.

Though she was the sort of woman men looked upon with lust, the thief would not

have her. He did not see her that way. His lust was not carnal. The waiting

thief was no rapist. He was a businessman. He did not even like to kill, and he

seldom had to. She passed the doorway in whose shadows he lurked, on the north

side of the street.

‘G’night Praxy, and thanks again for all that beer,’ he called to no one, and

stepped out onto the planking that bordered the street. He was ten paces behind

the quarry. Twelve. ‘Good thing I’m walking – I’m in no condition to ride a

horse t’night!’ Fourteen paces.

Laughing giddily, he followed her. The quarry.

She reached the corner of the deserted street and turned north, onto the Street

of Odours. Walking around two sides of the Serpentine! She was stupid. The dolt

had no business whatever with that fine bracelet. Didn’t have proper respect for

it. Didn’t know how to take care of it. The moment she rounded the corner, the

thief stepped off the boardwalk onto the unpaved street, squatted to snatch up

his shoes the moment he stepped out of them, and ran.

‘

Just at the intersection he stopped as if he had run into a wall, and dropped

the shoes. Stepped into them. Nodded affably, drunkenly to the couple who came

around off Stink Street – slat and slattern wearing three coppers’ worth of

clothing and four of ‘jewellery’. He stepped onto the planking, noting that they

noted little save each other. How nice. The Street of Odours was empty as far as

he could see. Except for the quarry.

‘Uhh,’ he groaned as if in misery. ‘Lady,’ he called, not loudly. ‘My lady?’ He

slurred a little, not overdoing. Five paces ahead, she paused and looked back.

‘H-hellp,’ he said, right hand clutching at his stomach.

She was too stupid to be down here alone at this time of night, all right. She

came back! All solicitous she was, and his hand moved a little to the left and

came out with a flat-bladed knife while his left hand clamped her right wrist,

the unbraceleted one. The point of the knife touched the knot of her expensive

cerulean sash.

‘Do not scream. This is a throwing knife. I throw it well, but I prefer not to

kill. Unless I have to, understand.me? All I want is that nice little snake

you’re wearing.’

‘Oh!’ Her eyes were huge and she tucked in her belly, away from the point of

several inches of dull-silvery leaf-shape he held to her middle. ‘It-it was a

gift…’

‘I will accept it as a gift. Oh you are smart, very smart not to try yelling. I

just hate to have to stick pretty women in the belly. It’s messy, and it could

give this end of town a bad name. I hate to throw a knife into their backs, for

that matter. Do you believe me?’

Her voice was a squeak: ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He released her wrist and kept his hand outstretched, palm up. ‘The

bracelet then. I am not so rude as to tear such a pretty bauble off a pretty

lady’s pretty wrist.’

Staring at him as if entranced, she backed a pace. He flipped the knife, caught

it by the tip. His left palm remained extended, a waiting receptacle. The right

hefted the knife in a throwing attitude and she swiftly twisted off the

bracelet. Better than he had thought, he realized with a flash of greed and

gratification; the serpent’s eyes appeared to be nice topazes! All right then,

he’d let her keep the expensive sash.

She did not drop the bracelet into his palm; she placed it there. Nice hard cold

gold, marvellously weighty. Only slightly warmed from a wrist the colour of

burnt sienna. Nice, nice. Her eyes leaped, flickered in fear when he flipped the

knife to catch it by its leather-wrapped tang. It had no hilt, to keep that end

light behind the weighted blade.

‘You see?’ he said, showing teeth. ‘I have no desire for your blood, understand

me? Only this bauble.’

The bracelet remained cold in his palm and when it moved he jerked his hand

instinctively. Fast as he was he was only human, not a striking serpent; the

bracelet, suddenly become a living snake, drove its fangs into the meaty part of

his hand that was the inner part of his thumb. It clung, and it hurt. Oh it

hurt.

The thief’s smile vanished with his outcry of pain. Yet he saw her smile, and

even as he felt the horror within him he raised the throwing knife to stab the

filthy bitch who had trapped him.

That is, he tried to raise the knife, tried to shake his bitten hand to which

the serpent clung. He failed. Almost instantly, the bite of that unnatural snake

ossified every bone and bit of cartilage in his body and, stiffly, Gath the

thief fell down dead.

His victim, still smiling, squatted to retrieve her property. She was shivering

in excitement. She slipped the cold hard bracelet of gold onto her wrist. Its

eyes, cold hard stones, scintillated. And a tremor ran all through the woman.

Her eyes glittered and sparkled.

‘Oooohh,’ she murmured with a shiver, all trembly and tingly with excitement and

delight. ‘It was worth every piece of silver I paid, this lovely bauble from

that lovely shop. I’m really glad it was destroyed. Those of us who bought these

weapons of the god are so unique.’ She was trembling, excitement high in her and

her heart racing with the thrill of danger faced and killing accomplished, and

she stroked the bracelet as if it were a lover.

She went home with her head high in pride and continuing excitement, and she was

not at all happy when her husband railed at her for being so late and seized her

by the left wrist. He went all bright eyed and stiff and fell down dead. She was

not at all happy. She had intended to kill only strangers for the thrill of it,

those who deserved it. Somewhere, surely, the god Vashanka smiled.

‘The god-damned city’s in a mess and busy as a kicked anthill and I think you

had more than a whit to do with it,’ the dark young man said. (Or was he a

youth? Street-wise and tough and hooded of eyes and wearing knives as a

courtesan wore gems. Hair blacker than black and eyes nearly so above a nose

almost meant for a bird of prey.)

‘ “God-damned” city, indeed,’ said the paler, discomfitingly tall man, who was

older but not old, and he came close to smiling. ‘You don’t know how near you

are to truth, Shadowspawn.’

Around them in the charcoal dimness others neither heard nor were overheard. In

this place, the trick was not to be overheard. The trick was to talk under

everyone else. A bad tavern with a bad reputation in a bad area of a nothing

town, the tavern called the Vulgar Unicorn was an astonishingly quiet place.

‘Just call me Hanse and stop being all cryptic and fatherly,’ the dark young man

said. ‘I’m not looking for a father. I had one – I’m told. Then I had Cudget

Swearoath. Cudget told me all I -all he knew.’

The other man heard; ‘fatherly’ used to mean ‘patronizing’, and the flash of ego

in the tough called Shadowspawn. Chips on his shoulders out to here. The other

man did not smile. How to tell Hanse how many Hanses he had known, over so many

years?

‘Listen. One night a while ago I killed. Two men.’ Hanse did not lower his voice

for that statement-not-admission; he kept it low. The shadow of a voice.

‘Not men, Hanse. Hawk-masks. Jubal’s bravoes. Hardly men.’

‘They were men, Tempus. They were all men. So is Hanse and even Kadaki – the

prince-governor.’

‘Kitty-Cat.’

‘I do not call him that,’ Hanse said, with austerity. Then he said, ‘It’s you

I’m not sure of, Tempus. Are you a man?’

‘I’m a man,’ Tempus said, with a sigh that seemed to come from the weight of

decades and decades. ‘Tonight I asked you to call me Thales. Go ahead, Hanse.

You killed two men, while helping me. Were you, by the way? Or were you lurking

around my horse that night thinking of laying hands on some krrf?’

‘I use no drugs and little alcohol.’

‘That isn’t what I asked,’ Tempus said, not bothering to refute.

Dark eyes met Tempus’s, which impressed him. ‘Yes. That is why I was there, T

Thales. Why “Thay-lees”?’

‘Since all things are presently full of gods, why not “Thales”? Thank you,

Hanse. I appreciate your honesty. We can -‘

‘Honesty?’ A man, once well built and now wearing his chest all over his broad

belt and bulging under it as well, had been passing their small round table.

‘Did I hear something about Hanse’s honesty? Hanse?’ His laugh was a

combination: pushed and genuine.

The lean youth called Shadowspawn moved nothing but his head. ‘How’d you like a

hole in your middle to let out all that hot air, Abohorr?’

‘How’d you like a third eye, Abohorr?’ Hanse’s tablemate said.

Abohorr betook himself elsewhere, muttering – and hurrying. Both Hanse’s lean

swift hands remained on the tabletop. ‘You know him, Thales?’

‘No.’

‘You heard me say his name and so you said it right after me.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sharp, Thales. Too … smart.’ Hanse slapped the table’s surface. ‘I’ve

been meeting too many sharp people lately. Sharp as…’ .

‘Knives,’ Tempus said, finishing the complaint of a very very sharp young man.

‘You were mentioning that you were waiting for me to come out of that house-not

home, Hanse, because you knew I was carrying. And then Jubal’s bravoes attacked

– me -and you took down two.’

‘I was mentioning that, yes.’ Hanse developed a seemingly genuine interest in

his brown-and-orange Saraprins mug. ‘How many men have you killed, Thales?’

‘Oh gods. Do not ask.’

‘Many.’

‘Many, yes.’

‘And no scars on you.’

Tempus looked pained. ‘No scars on me,’ he said, to his own big hands on the

table. Bronzed, they were still more fair than Shadowspawn’s. On a sudden

thought, he looked up and his expression was of dawning revelation and

disbelief. ‘Hanse? You saved my life that night. I saved yours – but they were

after me to begin with. Hanse? How many men have you killed?’

Hanse looked away. Hair like a raven, nose of a young falcon. Profile carved out

by a hand-axe sharper than a barber’s razor, all planes and angles. A pair of

onyxes for eyes, and just that hard. His look away was uncharacteristic and

Tempus knew it. Tempus worked out of the palace and had access to confidential

reports, one of which not even the prince-governor had seen. He wouldn’t,

either, because it no longer existed. Too, Tempus had dealt with this spawn of

Downwind and the shadows. He was here in this murkily-lit tavern of humanity’s

dregs to deal with him again.

Hanse, looking away, said, ‘You are not to tell anyone.’

Tempus knew just what to say. ‘Do not insult me again.’

Hanse’s nod was not as long as the thickness of one of his knives. (Were there

five, or did he really wear a sixth on one of his thighs? Tempus doubted that;

the strap wouldn’t stay up.)

At last Hanse answered the question. ‘Two.’

Two men. Tempus nodded, sighing, pushing back to come as close to slumping on

his bench as his kind of soldier could. Damp. Who would have thought it? The

reputation he had, this dark surly scary (to others, not the man currently

calling himself Tempus) youth from the gutters he doubtless thought he had risen

so far above. Tempus knew he had wounded a man or two, and he had assumed. Now

Shadowspawn said he had never slain! That, from such a one, was an admission.

Because of me he has been blooded, Tempus mused, and the weary thought followed:

Well, he’s not the first. I had my first two, once. I wonder who they were, and

where? (But he knew, he knew. A man did not forget such.

Tempus was older than anyone thought; he was not as world-weary old as he

thought, or thought he thought.) Just now he wanted to put forth a hand and

touch the much younger man. He certainly did not.

He said, ‘How do you feel about it?’

Hanse continued to gaze assiduously at something else. How could a child of the

desert with such long long lashes and that sensuous, almost pretty mouth look so

grim and thin-lipped? ‘I threw up.’

‘That proves you are human and is what you did. How do you feel about it?’

Hanse looked at him directly. After a time, he shrugged.

‘Yes,’ Tempus sighed, nodding. He drained his cup. Raised a right arm on high

and glanced in the general direction of the tap. The new nightman nodded. Though

he had not looked at the fellow, Tempus lowered his arm and looked at Hanse. ‘I

understand,’ he said.

‘Do you. A while ago I told the prince that it is a prince’s business to kill,

not a thief’s. Now I have killed.’

‘What a wonderful thing to say to a bit of royalty! I wish you weren’t so

serious right now, so I could laugh aloud. Do not expect any gentle words from

me about the kills, my friend. It happens. I didn’t ask for your help – or for

you to be waiting for me. You won’t do that again.’

‘Not that way, no.’ Hanse leaned back while whatever-his-name-was (they called

him ‘Two-Thumb’) set two newly-filled mugs between them. He did not take the

other two, or wait for payment. ‘I think things started when Bourne … died,

and you came to Thieves’ World.’

‘Thieves’ World?’

Again that almost-embarrassed shrug. ‘It’s what we call Sanctuary. Some of us.

Now the whole city’s in a mess and a turmoil and I think you have to do with

that.’

‘I believe you said that.’

‘You led me astray, “Thales”. That temple or store or whatever it was. It …

collapsed? – erupted, like a volcano? Something. Next the prince-‘

‘You really do respect him, don’t you?’

‘I don’t work for him though,’ Hanse pointed out; Tempus did. ‘He impounded the

… the god-weapons? – that place sold, or _ tried to. Hell Hounds paying people

for things they bought – or else! Things! New wealth in the city, because some

of them had been stolen and now are bought from thieves. People are laughing at

dealing with the new changer: the palace!’

Changer, Tempus knew, meant fence in this – city? 0 my God Vashanka – this? A

city?!

‘Two ships sitting out there in the harbour,’ Hanse went on, ‘guarded up to

here. I know those Things, those dark weapons of sorcery, are being loaded

aboard. Then what? Out to sea and straight to the bottom?’

‘The very best place for them,’ Tempus said, turning and slowly turning his

glazed earthenware mug. This one was striped garishly in yellow waves.’ Believe

it. There is too much power in those devices.’

‘Meanwhile some “enforcers” from the mageguild have been trying to get hands on

them first.’

That Tempus also knew. Three of the toughs had been eliminated in the past

twenty hours, unless another or two had been slain tonight, by local Watchmen or

those special guardsmen called Hell Hounds. ‘Unions will try to protect their

members, yes. No matter what. A union is a mindless animal.’

‘You paid me well -fair, to fetch you the diamond wand-things that woman wears

in her hair. I did, and she has them back. You gave them back.’

Cime. Cime’s diamond-rods in her fine fine wealth of hair. ‘Yes. Did I?’

‘You did. And strange things are happening in Sanctuary. Those . were soreerous

weapons those hawk-masks used against you and me. A poor thief tried to snatch a

woman’s bracelet the other night, down in – never mind the street. She shouldn’t

have been there. The bracelet turned into a snake and killed him. I don’t know

what it did to him. He’s dead and they say he weighs about twice as much as he

did alive.’

‘It solidified his bones. It was obtained this morning. And when didn’t strange

things happen in Sanctuary, my friend?’

‘That is twice you have called me that.’ Hanse’s words had the sound of

accusation about them.

‘So I have. I must mean it, then.’

Hanse became visibly uncomfortable: ‘I am Hanse. I was … apprentice to Cudget

Swearoath. Prince Kitty-Cat had him hanged. I am Shadowspawn. I have breached

the palace and because of me a Hell Hound is dead. I have no friends.’

And you slip and call him ‘Kitty-Cat’ when you think of your executed mentor, do

you? Not seeking a father, eh? Do you know that all men do, and that I have

mine, in Vashanka? Ah Hanse how you seek to be enigmatic and so cool – and are

about as transparent as a pan of water caught from the sky!

Tempus waved a hand. ‘Save all that. Just tell me not to be your friend. Not to

call you friend.’

A silence fell over them like a struck banner and something naked stared out of

Hanse’s eyes. By the time he knew he must speak into the silence, it was too

late. That same silence was Tempus’s answer.

‘Yes,’ Tempus said, considerately-cleverly changing the subject. ‘What old

whatsisname Torchholder yammers about is true. Vashanka came, and He claimed

Sanctuary. His name is branded into the place, now. The very temple of Ils lies

in rubble. Vashanka created the Weaponshop, from nothing, and-‘

‘A pedlar-god?’

‘I didn’t think much of the lactic myself,’ Tempus said, hoping Vashanka heard

him while noting how good the youth was at sneering. ‘And the Weaponshop

destroyed the mage the governor imported to combat him. Vashanka is not to be

combated.’

Hanse snapped glances this way and that. ‘Say such things a time or two more in

Sanctuary, my friend, and your body will be mourning the loss of its head.’

The blond man stared at him. ‘Do you believe that?’

Hanse let that pass, while he rowed into the current of other conversations in

the tavern. A current restless as a thief on a landing outside a window, and

conversations just as stealthy and dark. He tuned it out again, stepping out of

the flow yet flowing with it. Quietly.

‘And how many of those fell Things do you think are still loose?’

‘Too many. Two or four? You know our job is to collect them.’

‘Our?’

‘The Hell Hounds.’

‘Who’s your bearded friend, Hanse?’

The speaker stood beside the table, only a bit older than Hanse and just as

cocky. Older in years only; he had not benefited from those years and would

never be so much as Hanse. Self-consciously he wore self-consciously tight

black. Oh, a brilliant thief! About as unobtrusive as hives.

Hanse was staring at Tempus, who was pink and bronze of skin, gold and honey of

hair, lengthy and lengthy of legs, and smoothshaven as a pair of doeskin

leggings. Hanse did not take his dark-eyed gaze off the Hell Hound, while his

dark hand moved out to close on the (black-bracered) wrist of the other young

man.

‘What colour would you say his beard is, Athavul?’

Athavul moved his arm and proved that his wrist would not come loose. His

arrogance and mask of cocky confidence fled him faster than a street girl fled a

man revealed poor. Tempus recognized Athavul’s chuckle; nervousness and sham.

Tempus had heard it a thousand or a million times. What was the difference? He

reflected on temporality, even while this boy Athavul temporized.

‘You going blind, Shadowspawn? You think myself is, and testing he and I?’ With

a harsh short laugh and a slap with his other hand on his own chest, Athavul

said, ‘Black as this. Black as this!’ He slapped his black leather pants – self

consciously.

Tempus, leaning a bit forwards, elbows on the little table, big swordsman’s

shoulders hunched, continued, to gaze directly at Hanse. Into Hanse’s eyes. His

face looked open because he made it that way. Beardless.

–

‘Same’s his hair?’ Hanse said, and his voice sounded brittle as very old

harness-leather. His eyes glittered.

Athavul swallowed. ‘Hair…’ He swallowed again, looking from Hanse to Tempus to

Hanse. ‘Ah … he’s your, ah, friend, Hanse. Let go, will you? You twit him

about his … head if you want to, but I won’t. Sorry I stopped and tried to be

civil.’

Without looking away from Hanse, Tempus said, ‘It’s all right, Athavul. My name

is Thales and I am not sensitive. I’ve been this bald for years.’

Hanse was staring at Tempus, blond Tempus. His hand opened. Athavul yanked his

arm back so fast he hit himself in his (nearly inexistent) stomach. He made no

pretence of grace; with a dark glance at Hanse, he betook himself elsewhere,

sullenly silent.

‘Nicely done,’ Tempus said, showing his teeth.

‘Don’t smile at me, stranger. What do you look like?’

‘Exactly what you see, Hanse. Exactly.’

‘And … what did he see?’ Hanse’s wave of his arm was as tight as he had become

inside. ‘What do they see here, talking with Hanse?’

‘He told you.’

‘Black beard, no hair.’

Blond, beardless Tempus nodded.

Neither had taken his gaze off the other’s eyes. ‘What else?’

‘Does it matter? I am in the employ of that person we both know. What you people

call a Hell Hound. I would not come here in that appearance! I doubt anyone else

would be in this room, if they saw me. I was here when you came in, remember?

Waiting for you. You were too cool to ask the obvious.’

‘They call me spawn of the shadows,’ Hanse said quietly, slowly, in a low tone.

He was leaning back as if to get a few more centimetres between him and the tall

man. ‘You’re just a damned shadow!’

‘It’s fitting. I need your help, Shadowspawn.’

Hanse said, enunciating distinctly, ‘Shit.’ And rising he added, ‘Sing for it.

Dance in the streets for it.’ And he turned away, then back to add, ‘You’re

paying of course, Baldy,’ and then he betook himself elsewhere.

Outside, he glanced up and down the vermiform ‘street’ called Serpentine, turned

right to walk a few paces north. Automatically, he stepped over the broken plank

in the boardwalk. He glanced into the tucked-in courtyard that was too broad and

shallow to be dangerous for several hours yet. Denizens of the Maze called it

variously the Outhouse, Tick’s Vomitory., or, less seriously. Safe-haven. From

the pointed tail of the shortcloak on the man back within that three-sided box,

Hanse recognized Poker the Cadite. From the wet sounds, he made an assumption as

to Poker’s activity. The man with the piebald beard glanced around.

‘Come on in, Shadowspawn. Not much room left.’

‘Looking for Athavul. Said he was carrying and said I could join him.’ Lying was

more than easy to Shadowspawn; it was almost instinctive.

‘You’re not mad at him?’ Poker dropped his tunic’s hem and turned from the

stained rearmost wall.

‘No no, nothing like that.’

‘He went south. Turned into Slick Walk.’

‘Thanks, Poker. There’s a big-bearded man in the Unicorn with no hair on top.

Get him to buy you a cup. Tell him I said.’

‘Ah. Enemy of yours, Hansey?’

‘Right.’

Hanse turned and walked a few paces north towards Straight, his back to Slick

Walk (which led into the two-block L whose real name no one remembered. Nary a

door opened onto it and it stayed dark as a sorcerer’s heart. It smelled

perpetually sour and was referred to as Vomit Boulevard). When Poker said the

weather was sunny, turn up your cloak’s hood against rain. When Poker said

right, head left.

Hanse cut left through Odd Birt’s Dodge, angling around the corner of the

tenement owned by Furtwan the dealer in snails for dye – who lived way over on

the east side, hardly in tenement conditions. Instantly Hanse vanished into the

embrace of his true friend and home. The shadows.

Because he had kept his eyes slitted while he was in the light filtering down

from Straight Street, he was able to see. The darkness deepened with each of his

gliding westward steps.

He heard the odd tapping sound as he passed Wrong Way Park. What in all the – a

blind man? Hanse smiled – keeping his mouth closed against the possible flash of

teeth. This was a wonderful place for the blind! They could ‘see’ more in three

quarters of the Maze than anyone with working eyes. He eased along towards the

short streetlet called Tanner, hearing the noises from Sly’s Place. Then he

heard Athavul’s voice, out in the open.

‘Your pardon, dear lady, but if you don’t hand myself your necklace and your

wallet I’ll put this crossbow bolt through your left gourd.’

Hanse eased closer, getting himself nearer the triple ‘corner’ where Tanner sort

of intersected with Odd Birt’s Dodge and touched the north-south wriggle of the

Serpentine as well. Streets ; in the Maze, it has been said, had been laid out

by two love-struck snakes, both soaring on krrf. Hanse heard the reply of Ath’s

intended prey: ‘You don’t have a crossbow, slime lizard, but see what I have!’

The scream, in a voice barely recognizable as Athavul’s, raised the hairs on

the back of Hanse’s neck and sent a chill running all the way down his

coccyx. He considered freezing in place. He I considered the sensible course

of turning and running. Curiosity urged him to edge two steps farther and peek

around the building housing Sly’s. Curiosity won.

By the time he looked, Athavul was whimpering and gibbering. Someone in a long

cloak the colour of red clay, hood up, stepped around him and Hanse thought he

heard a giggle. Cowering, pleading, gibbering in horribly obvious fear – of

what? – Athavul ^ fell to his knees. The cloak swept on along Tanner towards the

i Street of Odours, and Hanse swallowed with a little effort. A knife had got

itself into his hand; he didn’t throw if. He edged down a few more steps to see

which way the cloak turned. Right. Hanse caught a glimpse of the walking stick.

It was white. The way the person in that cloak was moving, though, she was not

blind. Nor was she any big woman.

Hanse put up his knife and started towards Athavul. ‘No! Please plehehehease!’

On his knees, Ath clasped his hands ; and pleaded. His eyes were wide and glassy

with fear. Sweat and [ tears ran down his face in such profusion that he must

soon have i salt spots on his black jerkin. His shaking was wind-blown wash on

the line and his face was the colour of a priming coat of whitewash.

Hanse stood still. He stared. ‘What’s the matter with you, Ath? I’m not menacing

you, you fugitive from a dung-fuelled stove! Athavul! What’s the matter’th you?’

‘Oh please pleoaplease no no oh ohh ohohohono-o-o…’ Athavul fell on his knees

and his still-clasped hands, bony rump in the air. His shaking had increased to

that of a whipped, starved dog.

Such an animal would have moved Hanse to pity. Athavul was just ridiculous.

Hanse wanted to kick him. He was also aware that two or three people were

peering out of the dump still called Sly’s Place though Sly had taken dropsy and

died two years back.

‘Ath? Did she hurt you? Hey! You little piece of camel dropping – what did she

do to you?’

At the angry, demanding sound of Hanse’s voice, Athavul clutched himself.

Weeping loudly, he rolled over against the wall. He left little spots of tears

and slobber and a puddle from a spasming sphincter. Hanse swallowed hard.

Sorcery. That damned Enos Y – no, he didn’t work this way. Ath was absolutely

terrified. Hanse had always thought him the consistency of sparrow’s liver and

chicken soup, with bird’s eggs between his legs. But this – not even this

strutting ass could be this hideously possessed by fear without preternatural

aid. Just the sight of it was scary. Hanse felt an urge to stomp or stick Ath

just to shut him up, and that was awful.

He glanced at the thirty-one strands of dangling Syrese rope (each knotted

thirty-one times) that hung in the doorway of Sly’s. He saw seven staring

eyeballs, six fingers, and several mismatched feet. Even in the Maze, noise

attracted attention … but people had sense enough not to go running out to see

what was amiss.

‘BLAAAH!’ Hanse shouted, making a horrid face and pouncing at the doorway. Then

he rushed past the grovelling, weeping Athavul. At the corner he looked up

Odours towards Straight, and he was sure he saw the vermilion cloak. Maroon now,

in the distance. Yes. Across Straight, heading north now past the tanners’ broad

open-front sheds, almost to the intersection with the Street called Slippery.

Several people were walking along Odours, just walking, heading south in Hanse’s

direction. The lone one carried a lanthorn.

All six walkers – three, one, and two – passed him going in the opposite

direction. None saw him, though Hanse was hurrying. He heard the couple talking

about the hooded blind woman with the white staff. He crossed well-lighted

Straight Street when the red clay cloak was at the place called Harlot’s Cross.

There Tanner’s Row angled in to join the Street of Odours at its mutual

intersection with the broad Governor’s Walk. He passed the tiny ‘temple’ ofTheba

and several shops to stop outside the entrance of the diminutive Temple of Eshi

Virginal – few believed in that -and watched the cloak turn left. Northwest. A

woman, all right. Heading past the long sprawl of the farmers’ market? Or one of

the little dwellings that faced it?

Heading for Red Lantern Road? A woman who pretends to be blind and who put a

spell of terror on Athavul like nothing I ever saw.

He had to follow her. He was incapable of not following her.

He was not driven only by curiosity. He wanted to know the identity of a woman

with such a device, yes. There was also the possibility of obtaining such a

useful wand. White, it resembled the walk-tap stick of a sightless woman.

Painted though, it could be the swagger stick of … Shadowspawn. Or of someone

with a swollen purse who could put it to good use against Hanse’s fellow

thieves.

He looked out for himself; let them.

Hanse did not follow. He moved to intersect, and could anyone have done it as

swiftly and surefootedly, it must have been a child who lived hereabouts and had

no supervision.

He ran past Slippery – fading into a fig-pedlar’s doorway while a pair of City

Watchmen passed – then ran through two vacant lots, a common back yard full of

dog droppings and the white patches of older ones, over an outhouse, around a

fat tree and then two meathouses and through two hedges – one spiny, which took

no note of being cursed by a shadow on silent feet – across a porch and around a

rain barrel, over the top of a sleeping black cat that objected with more noise

than the two dogs he had aroused – one was still importantly barking, puffed up

and hating to leave off- across another porch (‘Is that you, Dadisha? Where have

you been?’), through someone’s scraps and – long jump! – over a mulchpile, and

around two lovers (‘What was that, Wrenny?’), an overturned outhouse, a rain

barrel, a cow tethered to a wagon he went under without even slowing down, and

three more buildings.

One of the lovers and one of the dogs actually caught sight of the swift

fleeting shadow. No one else. The cow might have wondered.

On one knee beside a fat beanberry bush at the far end of Market Run, he looked

out upon the long straight stretch of well-kept street that ran past the market

on the other side. He was not winded.

The hooded cloak- with the walking stick was just reaching this end of the long,

long farmers’ market. Hanse crimped his cheeks in a little smile. Oh he was so

clever, so speedy! He was just in time to-

– to see the two cloakless but hooded footpads materialize from the deep jet

shadows at the building’s corner. They pounced. One ran angling, to grasp her

from behind, while his fellow came at her face-on with no weapons visible. Ready

to snatch what she had, and run. She behaved surprisingly; she lunged to one

side and prodded the attacker in front. Prodded, that Hanse saw; she did not

strike or stab with the white staff.

Instantly the man went to his knees. He was gibbering, pleading, quaking. A

butterfly clinging to a twig in a windstorm. Or … Athavul.

Swiftly – not professionally fast, but swiftly for her, a civilian, Hanse saw

(he was moving) – she turned to the one coming up behind her. He also adjusted

rapidly. He went low. The staff whirred over his head while his partner babbled

and pleaded in the most abject fear. The footpad had not stopped moving.

(Neither had Hanse.) Up came the hooded man from his crouch and his right hand

snapped out edge-on to strike her wrist while his other fist leaped to her

stomach. That fist glittered in the moonlight, or something glittered in it.

That silvery something went into her – and she made a puking gagging throaty

noise and while she fell the white stick slid from her reflexively opening

fingers. He grabbed it.

That was surely ill-advised, but his hand closed on the staffs handle without

apparent effect on him. He kicked her viciously, angrily – maybe she felt it,

gutted, and maybe she did not – and he railed at his comrade. The latter, on his

knees, behaved as Athavul had when Hanse shouted at him. He fell over and rolled

away, assuming the foetal posture while he wept and pled.

The killer spat several expletives and whirled back to his victim. She was

twitching, dying. Yanking open the vermilion cloak, he jerked off her necklace,

ripped a twisted silver loop out of each ear, and yanked at the scantling purse

on her girdle. It refused to come free. He sliced it with the swift single

movement of a practised expert. Straightening, he glanced in every direction,

said something to his partner – who rolled foetally, sobbing.

‘Theba take you, then,’ the thief said, and ran.

Back into the shadows of the market building’s west corner he fled, and one of

the shadows tripped him. As he fell, an elbow thumped the back of his neck.

‘I want what you’ve got, you murdering bastard,’ a shadow-voice said from the

shadows, while the footpad twisted to roll over. ‘Your kind gives thieves a bad

name.’

‘Take it then!’ The fallen man rammed the white staff into the shadow’s thigh as

it started to bend over him.

Instantly fear seized Hanse. Viced him; encompassed him; possessed him.

Sickening, stomach-fluttering fear. His armpits flooded and his sphincter

fluttered.

Unlike the stick’s victims he had seen, he was in darkness, and he was

Shadowspawn. He did not fall to his knees.

He fled, desperately afraid, snivelling, clutching his gut, babbling. Tears

flowed to blind him, but he was in darkness anyhow. Staggering, weeping,

horribly and obscenely afraid and even more horribly knowing all the while that

he had no reason to be afraid, that this was sorcery; the most demeaning spell

that could be laid on a man. He heard the killer laugh, and Hanse tried to run

faster. Hoping the man did not pursue to confront him. Accost him, Snarl mean

things at him. He could not stand that.

It did not happen that way. The thief who had slain without intending to kill

laughed, but he too was scared, and disconcerted. He fled, slinking, in another

direction. Hanse stumbled-staggered-snivelled on, on. Instinct was not gone but

was heightened; he clung to the shadows as a frightened child to its mother. But

he made noise, noise.

Attracted at the same time as she was repulsed by that whining fearful

gibbering, Mignureal came upon him. ‘What – it’s Han -what are you doing?’

He was seriously considering ending the terror by ending himself with the knife

in his fist. Anything to stop this enveloping, consuming agony of fear. At her

voice he dropped the knife and fell weeping to his knees.

‘Hanse ~ stop that!’

He did not. He could not. He could assume the foetal. He did. Uncomprehending,

the garishly-dressed girl acted instinctively to save him. Her mother liked him

and to Mignureal he was attractive, a figure of romance. In his state, saving

him was easy, even for a thirteen-year-old. Though his hysterical sobbing pleas

brought tears to her eyes, for him, Mignureal tied his wrists behind him. The

while, she breathed prayers known only to the S’danzo.

‘You come along now,’ she said firmly, leaking tears and gulping. ‘Come along

with me!’

Hanse obeyed.

She went straight along the well-lit Governor’s Walk and turned down Shadow

Lane, conducting her bound, snivelling captive. At the corner of Shadow and

Slippery, a couple of uniformed men accosted her.

‘Why it’s Moonflower’s darter. Whafve you got there, Mineral?’

‘Mignureal,’ she corrected. ‘Someone put a spell on him – over on the

Processional,’ she said, choosing an area far from where she had found him. ‘My

mother can help. Go with Eshi.’

‘Hmm. A spell of fear, huh? That damned Anus Yorl, I’ll wager a cup! Who is it,

snivelling under your shawl that way?’

Mignureal considered swiftly. What had happened to Hanse was awful. To have

these City Watchmen know, and spread it about – that would be insupportable.

Again Mignureal lied. It was her brother Antelope, she told them, and they made

sympathetic noises and let her be on her way, while they. muttered about dam’

sorcerers and the nutty names S’danzo gave their get. Both men agreed; they

would make a routine check of Awful Alley and stop in at the Alekeep, just down

the street.

Mignureal led Hanse a half-block more and went into her parents’ shop-and

living-quarters. They were asleep. The tautly overweight Moonflower did not heed

summonses and did not make house calls. Furthermore her husband was an

irrepressibly randy man who bedded early and insisted on her company. At her

daughter’s sobbing and shaking her, the seer awoke. That gently-named collection

of talent and adipose tissue and mammalia sufficient to nurse octuplets,

simultaneously, sat erect. She reached comfortingly for her daughter. Soon she

had listened, was out of bed, and beside Hanse. Mignureal had ordered him to

remain on the divan in the shop.

‘That just isn’t Hanse, Mother!’

‘Of course it isn’t. Look on sorcery, and hate it.’

‘Name ofTiana Saviour-it’s awful, seeing him, hearing him this way…’

‘Fetch my shawl,’ Moonflower said, one by one relieving Hanse of his knives,

‘and do make some tea, sweetheart.’

Moonflower held the quaking young man and crooned. She pillowed his tear-wet

face in the vastness of her bosom. She loosed his wrists, drew his hands round,

and held their wiry darkness in her large paler dimple-backed ones. And she

crooned, and talked low, on and on. Her daughter draped her with the shawl and

went to make tea.

The ray of moonlight that fell into the room moved the length of a big man’s

foot while the seer sat there with him, and more, and Hanse went to sleep, still

shivering. She held his hands until he was still but for his breathing.

Mignureal hovered close, all bright of eye, and knew the instant her mother went

off. Sagging. Glassy-eyed. She began murmuring, a woman small inside and huge

without; a gross kitten at her divining.

‘A yellow-furred hunting dog? Tall as a tree, old as a tree … he hovers and

with him is a god not of Ilsig. A god of Ranke – oh, it is a Hell Hound. Oh

Hanse it is not wizard-sorcery but god-sorcery! And who is thi – oh. Another

god. But why is Theba involved, who has so few adherents here? Oh!’

She shuddered and her daughter started to touch her; desisted.

‘I see Ils Himself hiding His face… a shadow tall as a tree and another, not

nearly so big. A shadow and its pawn? Why it has no head, this smaller shad

oh. It is afraid, that’s it; it has no face left. It is Ha – I will not say even

though he sleeps. Oh Mignue, there is a corpse on the street up in front of the

farmers’ market and – ahhh.’ Her relief was apparent in that great sigh. ‘Hanse

did not kill her. Another did, and Theba hovers over her. Hmm. I see – I s- I

will not say what I s … it fades, goes.’

Again she sighed and sat still, sweating, overflowing her chair on both sides.

Gazing at the sleeping Shadowspawn. ‘He has spoken with the governor who is the

emperor’s kinsman, Mignureal my dear, did you know that? He will again. They are

not enemies, our governor and Shadowspawn.’

‘Oh.’ And Mignureal looked upon him, head to one side. Moonflower saw the look.

‘You will go to bed and tomorrow you will tell me what you were doing abroad so

late, Mignue. You will not come near Hanse again, do you understand?’

‘Oh, mother.’ Mignureal met the level gaze only briefly. ‘Yes, mother. I

understand.’ And she went to bed.

Moonflower did not; she stayed beside Hanse. In the morning he was all right and

she totd him what she had Seen. He would never be the same again, she knew, he

who had met quintessential fear. Lord Terror himself, face to face. But he was

Hanse again, and not afraid, and Moonflower was sure that within a few hours he

would have his gliding swagger back. She did note that he was grim-facedly

determined.

The message left at the little Watchpost at the corner of Shadow and Lizard’s

Way suggested that the ‘tall as a tree Hell-hound take a walk between stinky

market and the cat storage’ at the time of the fifth nightwatch ‘when the

shadows are spawning fear in all hearts’. The message was delivered to Tempus,

who ordered the sub-prefect to forget it, and looked fierce. The wriggly agreed

and got thence.

In private, his mind aided by a pinch of his powdered friend, Tempus worked

backwards at the cipher. The. last line had to be the signature: Shadowspawn.

Hanse wanted to meet him very privately, an hour past midnight. Good. So …

where? ‘Stinky market’ could mean lots of places. ‘Cat storage’ meant nothing.

Cat storage; cat – the granaries? – where cats not only were kept but migrated,

drawn by the mice drawn by the grain? No; there was no way to walk between any

of the granaries and anything deserving to be characterized as stinky market

beyond any other stenchy place. What stinks most? Easy, he answered himself. The

tanners – no! Don’t be stupid, second thought told him. Fish stink worse than

anything. Hmm. The fish market then, down on Red Clay Street – which might as

well be called Warehouse Street. So all the natives called it. The stinking fish

market, then, and … cat storage? He stared at the map.

Oh. Simple. The governor was called Kitty-Cat and a warehouse was a place for

storage. The Governor’s Warehouse then, down beside the fish market. Not a block

from the Watchpost at Shadow and Lizard, the rascal! Tempus shook his head, and

hours and hours later he was there. He made sure no one tried to ‘help’ him;

twice he played thief, to watch his own trail. He was not followed. Wrinkling

his nose at the stench and slipping on a discarded fish-head, he resolved to get

a clean-up detail down here, and recommend a light as well.

‘I am glad you look like you,’ the shadows said, from behind and above him.

‘A god has marked me, Hanse,’ Tempus explained, without turning or looking up.

‘He helped me, in the Vulgar Unicorn. I didn’t care to be seen there,

compromising you. Did you leave the message because you have changed your mind?’

‘There will be a bargain.’

‘ I can appreciate that. Word is that you have bargained before, with my

employer.’

‘That is as obviously impossible as breaking into the palace.’

‘Obviously. I am empowered to bargain, Hanse.’ I ‘A woman was found dead on

Farmer’s Run just at the west end of the market,’ the shadows said quietly. ‘She

wore a cloak the colour of red clay.’ I ‘Yes.’ ‘ •

‘She had a walking stick. It has a … horrible effect on a man. Her killer

stole it, after she used it on his partner. He abandoned him.’

‘No thief’s corpse was found.’

‘It does not kill. Its effect is … obscene.’ A pause; while the shadow

shuddered? ‘I saw it happen. They were hooded.’

‘Do you know who they are?’

‘Not now. I canUnd out-easily. Want the stick?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many of those foul things remain in … circulation?’

‘We think two. A clever fellow has done well for himself by counting the people

who came out of the shop with a purchase, and recording the names of those he

knew. What is the bargain, Hanse?’

‘I had rather deal with him.’

‘I wish you would trust me. Setting up interviews with him takes time.’

‘I trust you, Tempus, just as you trust me. Get me something in writing from

him, then. Signed. Give it to the seer, Moonflower. This is costing me time,

pulling me away from my work-‘

‘Work?’

‘ – and I shall have to have compensation. Now.’

0 you damned arrogant boy, Tempus thought, and without a word he made three

coins clink as he dropped them. He was sure Hanse’s ears could distinguish gold

from copper or silver by the sound of the clink. He also dropped a short section

of pig’s intestine, stitched at one end and tied off at the other. He said,

‘Oops.’

‘I want assistance in recovering something of mine, Tempus. Just labour, that’s

all. What’s to be recovered is mine, I guarantee it.’

‘I’ll help you myself.’

‘We’ll need tools, a horse, rope, strength…’

‘Done. I will get it in writing, but it is done. Deliver and I deliver. We have

a bond between us.’

‘So have he and I. I do want that paper signed and slipped to the S’danzo seer.

Very well then, Tempus. We have bargained.’

‘By mid-afternoon. Good night, spawn of shadows.’

‘Good night, shadow-man. You didn’t say “pawn”, did you?’

‘No.’ And Tempus turned and walked ba.ck up between the buildings to light, and

less stenchy air. Behind him, soundlessly, the three gold coins and little bag

ofkrrfhe had dropped vanished, into the shadows.

Next day not long after dawn Hanse gave Moonflower a great hug and pretended to

find a gold piece in her ear.

‘I Saw for you, not for coin,’ she told him.

‘I understand. I know. Why look, here’s another in your other ear, for

Mignureal. I give you the gold because I found it, not because you helped me.

And a message will be given you today, for me.’

Moonflower made both coins disappear beneath her shawl into what she called her

treasure chest. ‘Don’t frown; Mignue shall have the one as her very own. Will

you do something for me I would prefer to coin, Hanse?’

Very seriously, relaxing for once, he nodded. ‘Without question.’

‘ My daughter is very young and thinks you are just so romantic a figure. Will

you just pretend she is your sister?’

‘Oh you would not want that. Passionflower,’ he said, in one of those rare

indications of what sort of childhood he must have had. ‘She is my friend’s

daughter and I shall call her cousin. Besides, she saw me … that way. I may

not be able to look her in the eyes again.’

She took those lean restless hands of a thief proud never to have hurt any he

robbed. ‘You will, Hanse. You will. It was god-sorcery, and no embarrassment.

Will you now be careful?’

‘I will.’

She studied his eyes. ‘But you are going to find him.’

‘I am.’

The adherents of the most ancient goddess Theba went hooded to their little

temple. This was their way. It also made it easier for the government to keep

them under surveillance, and made it easy for Hanse to slip among them. A little

tilt to his shoulder, a slight favouring of one leg under the dull brown robe,

and he was not the lithely gliding Shadowspawn at all.

The services were dull and he had never liked the odour of incense. It made him

want to sneeze and go to sleep, both at once. Insofar as he ever gave thought to

religion, he leaned towards a sort of loyalty to the demigod Rander

Rehabilitatus. He endured, and he observed. This goddess’s worship in Sanctuary

included two blind adherents. Both carried staffs. Though only one was white, it

was not in the grip of a left-handed man.

Finding his quarry really was as simple as that. On deserting his partner, the

murderous thief had sneered ‘Theba take you,’ and Moonflower had Seen that

goddess, or at least the likeness of her icons and amulets. She had no more than

forty worshippers here, and only this one (part-time) temple. The thief had also

struck away the terror-stick with his right hand and used his left to drive the

dagger into his victim – and to use the staff on Hanse.

There came the time of Communing In Her. Hanse watched what the others did. They

mingled, and a buzz rose as they said nice silly loving peace-things to each

other in the name of Her. The usual meaningless ritual; ‘peace’ was a word and

life and its exigencies were another matter. Hanse mingled.

‘Peace and love to you, brother,’ a woman said from within her wine-dark cowl,

and her hand slipped into Hanse’s robe and he caught her wrist.

‘Peace and defter fingers to you, sister,’ he said quietly, and went around her

towards his goal. To be certain, he came cowl to cowl with the man with the

white stick and, smiling, made a shamefully obscene gesture. The cowl and the

staff did not move; a hand moved gently out to touch him.

‘Her peace remain on you, my brother,’ the blind man said in a high voice, and

Hanse mouthed words, then turned.

‘You rotten slime,’ a cowl striped in green and red hissed. ‘Poor blind Sorad

has been among us for years and no one ever made such a nasty gesture to him.

Who are you, anyhow?’

‘One who thinks that other blind man is not blind and not one of us, and was

testing – brother. Have you ever seen him before?’

His accoster – burly, in that striped Myrsevadan robe, looked around. ‘Well …

no. The one in the gloves?’

‘Yes. I think they are because his stick – yes, peace to you too, sister – has

just been painted.’

‘You think it’s a disguised weapon? That.he’s from the… palace?’

‘No. I think the prince-governor couldn’t care a rat’s whisker about us.’

Substituting the pronoun was a last instant thought, and Hanse felt proud of

that touch. Playing ‘I’m just like you but he is bad’ had got him out of several

scrapes. ‘I do think he is a spy, though. That priest from Ranke, who thinks

every temple should be closed down except a glorious new one to Vash – Vashi

whatever they call him. I’ll bet that’s his spy.’

That made the loyal Thebite quiver in rage! He went directly towards the man in

the forest green cloak, with the brown stick. Hanse, edging along towards the

entrance of what was by day a belt-maker’s shop, watched Striped Robe speak to

the man with the staff. An answer came, as Hanse moved.

Hanse didn’t hear the reply; he heard ‘May all your days be bright in Her name

and She take you when you are tired of life, brother.’ This from the fat man

beside him, in a tent-sized cloak.

‘Oh, thank you, brother. And on you, peace in Her n-‘ Hanse broke off when the

terrified screaming began.

It was the big fellow in the robe of green and red stripes, and his cowl fell

back to show his fear-twisted face. Naturally no one understood, and other cries

arose amid the milling of robed, faceless people. Two did understand, and both

moved towards the door. One was closer. He hurried forth, running – and outside,

cut left out of view of the doorway and swung swiftly back. He already had the

little jar of vinegar out of his dull brown robe, and the cork pulled. Inside

the temple: clamour.

The man with the gloves and brown walking stick hurried through the door and

turned left; had he not, Hanse would have called. The fellow had no time for

anything before Hanse sent the vinegar sloshing within his hood.

‘Ah!’ Naturally the man ducked his head as the liquid drenched him and entered

both eyes. Since he was not blind and not accustomed to carrying a staff as a

part of him, he dropped it to rush both hands to his face. Hanse swallowed hard

before snatching up the stick by its handle. He kicked the moaning fellow in the

knee-cap, and ran. The god-weapon seemed hummingly alive in his hand, so much

that he wanted to throw it down and keep running. He did not, and it exerted no

other effect on him. Just around the corner he paused for an importuning beggar,

who soon had the gift of a nice brown, cowled robe. Since it was thrown over him

as he sat, he never saw the generous giver. He had been swallowed by the shadows

once the beggar got his head free of the encumbering woollen.

‘Here, you little lizard, where do you think you’re running to, hah?’

That from the brutish swaggering desert tradesman who grabbed at Hanse as he ran

by. Well, he was not of the city, and did not know who he laid big hand on. Nor

was he likely to aught but hie himself out of Sanctuary, once he returned to

normal – doubtless robbed. Besides, a test really should be made to be sure, and

Hanse poked him.

This was the staff of ensorcelment, all right.

Hurrying on his way, Hanse began to smile.

He had the stick and the murdering thief who had used it on him would not be too

nimble for a long, long time, and the robe he had snitched off a drying line was

in the possession of a beggar who would be needing it in a few months, and Hanse

had his little message from the prince-governor. It avowed – so Hanse was told,

as he did not read – that ‘he you specify shall lend full aid in the endeavour

you specify, provided it is legal in full, in return for your returning another

wand to us’.

Hanse had laughed when he read that last; even a prince had a sense of humour

and could allude to Hanse’s having stolen his Savankh, rod of authority, less

than a month ago. And now Shadowspawn would have the aid of big strong super

legal Tempus in regaining two bags of silver coin from a well up in the

supposedly haunted ruins of Eaglenest. Hanse hoped Prince Kadakithis would

appreciate the humour in that, too: the bagged booty had come from him, as

ransom for the official baton of his imperial authority in Sanctuary. Even

Tempus’s krrf had brought in a bit of silver.

And now … Hanse’s grin broadened. Suppose he just went about a second illicit

entry of the palace? Suppose a blind man showed up among the swarm of alms

seekers to be admitted into the courtyard two days hence, in accord with

Kadakithis’s people wooing custom? Shadowspawn would not only hand this awful

staff to the prince-governor, he would at the same time provide ., graphic

demonstration of the palace’s pitiable security.

Unfortunately, Tempus had taken charge of security. The hooded blind beggar was

challenged at the gate two days thence, and the Hell Hound Quag suspiciously

snatched the staff from him. When the disguised Hanse objected, he was struck

with it. Well, at least that way it was proven that he had brought the right

stick in good faith, and that way he did get to spend a night in the palace,

however unpleasant in his state of terror.

TO GUARD THE GUARDIANS

By Robert Lynn Asprin

The Hell Hounds were now a common sight in Sanctuary so the appearance of one in

the bazaar created little stir, save for the concealment of a few smuggled wares

and a price increase on everything else. However, when two appeared together, as

they did today, it was enough to silence casual conversation and draw uneasy

stares, though the more observant vendors noted that the pair were engrossed in

their own argument and did not even glance at the stalls they were passing.

‘But the man has offended me…’ the darker of the pair snarled.

‘He offends everyone,’ his companion countered, ‘it’s his way. I tell you,

Razkuli, I’ve heard him say things to the prince himself that would have other

men flayed and blinded. You’re a fool to take it personally.’

‘But, Zalbar…’

‘I know, I know – he offends you; and Quag bores you and Arman is an arrogant

braggart. Well, this whole town offends me, but that doesn’t give me the right

to put it to the sword. Nothing Tempus has said to you warrants a blood feud.’

‘It is done.’ Razkuli thrust one fist against his other palm as • they walked.

‘It is not done until you act on your promise, and if you do /’// move to stop

you. I won’t have the men in my command killing each other.’

The two men walked silently for several moments, each lost in his own dark

thoughts.

‘Look, my friend,’ Zalbar sighed, ‘I’ve already had one of my men killed under

scandalous circumstances. I don’t want to answer for another incident

particularly if it involves you. Can’t you see Tempus is trying to goad you into

a fight? – a fight you can’t win.’

‘No one lives that I’ve seen over an arrow,’ Razkuli said ominously, his eyes

narrowing on an imaginary target.

‘Murder, Razkuli? I never thought I’d see the day you’d sink to being an

assassin.’

There was a sharp intake of breath and Razkuli faced his comrade with eyes that

showed a glint of madness. Then the spark faded and the small man’s shoulders

relaxed. ‘You’re right, my friend,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I would never do

that. Anger speeds my tongue ahead of reason.’

‘As it did when you vowed blood-feud. You’ve survived countless foes who were

mortal; don’t try the favour of the gods by seeking an enemy who is not.’

‘Then the rumours about Tempus are true?’ Razkuli asked, his eyes narrowing

again.

‘I don’t know, there are things about him which are difficult to explain by any

other logic. Did you see how rapidly his leg healed? We both know men whose

soldiering career was ended after they were caught under a horse – yet he was

standing duty again within the week.’

‘Such a man is an affront against Nature.’

‘Then let Nature take vengeance on him,’ Zalbar laughed, clapping a friendly

hand on his comrade’s shoulder, ‘and free us for more worthwhile pastimes.

Come, I’ll buy you lunch. It will be a pleasant change from barracks food.’

Haakon, the sweetmeats vendor, brightened as the two soldiers approached him and

waited patiently while they made their selections from his spiced-meat

turnovers.

‘That will be three coppers,’ he smiled through yellowed teeth. ‘Three coppers?’

Razkuli exclaimed angrily, but Zalbar silenced him with a nudge in the ribs.

‘Here, fellow…’ the Hell-Hound commander dropped some coins into Haakon’s

outstretched hand, ‘take four. Those of us from the Capitol are used to paying

full value for quality goods -though I suppose that this far from civilization

you have to adjust the prices to accommodate the poorer folk.’

The barb went home and Zalbar was rewarded by a glare of pure hatred before he

turned away, drawing Razkuli with him. ‘Four coppers! You were being overcharged

at three!’

‘I know.’ Zalbar winked. ‘But I refuse to give them the satisfaction of

haggling. I find it’s worth the extra copper to see their faces when I imply

that they’re selling below value – it’s one of the few pleasures available in

this hellhole.’

‘I never thought of it that way,’ Razkuli said with a laugh, ‘but you’re right.

My father would have been livid if someone deliberately overpaid him. Do me a

favour and let me try it when we buy the wine.’

Razkuli’s refusal to bargain brought much the same reaction from the wineseller.

The dark mood of their conversation as they had entered the bazaar had vanished

and they were ready to eat with calm humour.

‘You provided the food and drink, so I’ll provide the setting,’ Razkuli

declared, tucking the wine-flask into his belt. ‘I know a spot which is both

pleasant and relaxing.’

‘It must be outside the city.’

‘It is, just outside the Common Gate. Come on, the city won’t miss our presence

for an hour or so.’

Zalbar was easily persuaded though more from curiosity than belief. Except for

occasional patrols along the Street of Red Lanterns he rarely got outside

Sanctuary’s North Wall and had never explored the area to the northwest where

Razkuli. was leading him.

It was a different world here, almost as if they had stepped through a magic

portal into another land. The buildings were scattered, with large open spaces

between them, in contrast to the cramped shops and narrow alleys of the city

proper. The air was refreshingly free from the stench of unwashed bodies

jostling each other in crowded streets. Zalbar relaxed in the peaceful surround

. ings. The pressures of patrolling the hateful town slipped away like a heavy

cloak, allowing him to look forwards to an uninterrupted meal in pleasant

company.

‘Perhaps you could speak to Tempus? We needn’t like each other, but if he could

find another target for his taunts, it would do much towards easing my hatred.’

Zalbar shot a wary glance at his comrade, but detected none of the blind anger

which he had earlier expressed. The question seemed to be an honest attempt on

Razkuli’s part to find a corn-promise solution to an intolerable situation.

‘I would, if I thought it would help,’ he sighed reluctantly, ‘but I fear I have

little influence on him. If anything, it would only make matters worse. He would

redouble his attacks to prove he wasn’t afraid of me either.’

‘But you’re his superior officer,’ Razkuli argued.

‘Officially, perhaps,’ his friend shrugged, ‘but we both know there are gaps

between what is official and what is true. Tempus has the Prince’s ear. He’s a

free agent here and follows my orders only when it suits him.’

‘You’ve kept him out of the Aphrodesia House…’

‘Only because I had convinced the prince of the necessity of maintaining the

good will of that House before Tempus arrived,’ Zalbar countered, shaking his

head. ‘I had to go to the prince to curb Tempus’s ill-conduct and earned his

hatred for it. You notice he still does what he pleases at the Lily Garden – and

the prince looks the other way. No, I wouldn’t count on my influence over

Tempus. I don’t think he would physically attack me because of my position in

the Prince’s bodyguard. I also don’t think he would come to my aid if I were

hard-pressed in a fight.’

Just then Zalbar noticed a small flower garden nestled beside a . house not far

from their path. A man was at work in the garden, watering and pruning. The

sight created a sudden wave of nostalgia in the Hell Hound. How long had it been

since he stood outside the Emperor’s Palace in the Capitol, fighting boredom by

watching the gardeners pampering the flowered grounds? It seemed like a

lifetime. Despite the fact that he was a soldier by profession, or perhaps

because he was a soldier, he had always admired the calm beauty of flowers.

‘Let’s eat there … under that tree,’ he suggested, indicating a spot with a

view of the garden. ‘It’s as good a place as any.’ Razkuli hesitated, glancing

at the gardened house and started to say something, then shrugged and veered

towards the tree. Zalbar saw the mischievous smile flit briefly across his

comrade’s face, but ignored it, preferring to contemplate the peaceful garden

instead.

The pair dined in the manner of hardened, but off-duty, campaigners. Rather than

facing each other, or sitting side-by-side, the two assumed back-to-back

positions in the shade of a spreading tree. The earthenware wine-flask was

carefully placed to one side, but in easy reach of both. Not only did the

arrangement give them a full circle of vision to ensure that their meal would be

uninterrupted, it also allowed a brief illusion of privacy for the individual

a rare commodity to those whose profession required that every moment be shared

with at least a dozen colleagues. To further that illusion they ate in silence.

Conversation would be neither attempted nor tolerated until both were finished

with their meal. It was the stance of men who trusted each other completely.

Although his position allowed him a clear view of the flower garden, Zalbar

found his thoughts wandering back to his earlier conversation with Razkuli. Part

of his job was to maintain peace among the Hell Hounds, at least to a point

where their personal differences did not interfere with the performance of their

duties. To that end he had soothed his friend’s ruffled feathers and forestalled

any open fighting within the force … for the time being, at least. With peace

thus preserved, Zalbar could admit to himself that he agreed wholeheartedly with

Razkuli.

Loudmouthed bullies were nothing new in the army, but Tempus was a breed apart.

As a devout believer in discipline and law, Zalbar was disgusted and appalled by

Tempus’s attitudes and conduct. What was worse, Tempus did have the prince’s

ear, so Zalbar was powerless to move against him despite the growing rumours of

immoral and illegal conduct.

The Hell Hound’s brow furrowed as he reflected upon the things he had heard and

seen. Tempus openly used krrf, both on duty and off. He was rapidly building a

reputation for brutality and sadism among the not easily shocked citizens of

Sanctuary. There were even rumours that he was methodically hunting and killing

the blue-masked sell-swords employed by the exgladiator, Jubal.

Zalbar had no love for that crime-lord who traded in slaves to mask his more

illicit activities, but neither could he tolerate a Hell Hound taking it upon

himself to be judge and executioner. But he had been ordered by the prince to

allow Tempus free rein and was powerless to even investigate the rumours: a fine

state of affairs when the law-enforcers became the lawbreakers and the lawgiver’

only moved to shelter them.

A scream rent the air, interrupting Zalbar’s reverie and bringing him to his

feet, sword in hand. As he cast about, searching for the source of the noise, he

remembered he had heard screams like that before … though not on any

battlefield. It wasn’t a scream of pain, hatred, or terror but the heartless,

soulless sounds of one without hope and assaulted by horror too great for the

mind to comprehend.

The silence was completely shattered by a second scream and this time Zalbar

knew the source was the beautifully gardened house. He watched in growing

disbelief as the gardener calmly continued his work, not even bothering to look

up despite the now frequent screams. Either the man was deaf or Zalbar himself

was going mad, reacting to imaginary noises from a best-forgotten past. Turning

to Razkuli for confirmation, Zalbar was outraged to find his friend not only

still seated but grinning ear-to-ear.

‘Now do you see why I was willing to pass this spot by?’ the swarthy Hell Hound

said with a laugh. ‘Perhaps the next time I offer to lead you won’t be so quick

to exert your rank.’

‘You were expecting this?’ Zalbar demanded, unsoothed by Razkuli’s humour.

‘Of course, you should be thankful it didn’t start until we were nearly finished

with our meal.’

Zalbar’s retort was cut off by a drawn out piercing cry that rasped against ear

and mind and defied human endurance with its

length.

‘Before you go charging to the rescue,” Razkuli commented, ignoring the now

fading outburst of pain, ‘you should know I’ve already looked into it. What

you’re hearing is a slave responding to its master’s attentive care: a situation

entirely within the law and therefore no concern of ours. It might interest you

to know that the owner of that building is a …’

‘Kurd!’ Zalbar breathed through taut lips, glaring at the house as if it were an

arch-enemy.

‘You know him?’

‘We met once, back at the Capitol. That’s why he’s here … or at least why he’s

not still there.’

‘Then you know his business?’ Razkuli scowled, a bit deflated that his

revelations were no surprise. ‘I’ll admit I find it distasteful, but there’s

nothing we can do about it.’

‘We’ll see,’ Zalbar announced darkly, starting towards the house.

‘Where’re you going?’

‘To pay Kurd a visit.’

‘Then I’ll see you back at the barracks.’ Razkuli shuddered. ‘I’ve been inside

that house once already, and I’ll not enter again unless it’s under orders.’

Zalbar made no note of his friend’s departure though he did sheathe his sword as

he approached the house. The impending battle would not require conventional

weapons.

‘Ho there!’ he hailed the gardener. ‘Tell your master I wish to speak with him.’

‘He’s busy,’ the man snarled, ‘can’t you hear?’

‘Too busy to speak with one of the prince’s personal guard?’ Zalbar challenged,

raising an eyebrow.

‘He’s spoken to them before and each time they’ve gone away and I’ve lost pay

for allowing the interruption.’

‘Tell him it’s Zalbar…’ the Hell Hound ordered, ‘…your master will speak

with me, or would you like to deal with me in his stead?’

Though he made no move towards his weapons Zalbar’s voice and stance convinced

the gardener to waste no time. The gnome-like man abandoned his chores to

disappear into the house.

As he waited Zalbar surveyed the flowers again, but knowledge of Kurd’s presence

had ruined his appreciation of floral beauty. Instead of lifting his spirits,

the bright blossoms seemed a horrifying incongruity, like viewing a gaily

coloured fungus growing on a rotting corpse.

As Zalbar turned away from the flowers, Kurd emerged into the daylight. Though

it had been five years since they had seen each other, the older man was

sufficiently unchanged that Zalbar recognized him instantly: the stained

dishevelled dress of one who sleeps in his clothes, the unwashed, unkempt hair

and beard, as well as the cadaverously thin body with its long skeletal fingers

and pasty complexion. Clearly Kurd had not discontinued his habit of neglecting

his own body in the pursuit of his work.

‘Good day … citizen,’ the Hell Hound’s smile did not disguise the sarcasm

poisoning his greeting.

‘It is you,’ Kurd declared, squinting to study the other’s features. ‘I thought

we were done with each other when I left Ranke.’

‘I think you shall continue to see me until you see fit to change your

occupation.’

‘My work is totally within the limits of the law.’ The thin man bristled,

betraying, for a moment, the strength of will hidden in his outwardly feeble

body.

‘So you said in Ranke. I still find it offensive, without redeeming merit.’

‘Without redeeming…’ Kurd shrieked, then words failed him. His lips tightened,

he seized Zalbar by the arm and began pulling him towards the house. ‘Come with

me now,’ he instructed. ‘Let me show you my work and explain what I am doing.

Perhaps then you will be able to grasp the importance of my studies.’

In his career Zalbar had faced death in many guises and done it unflinchingly.

Now, however, he drew back in horror.

‘I … That won’t be necessary,’ he insisted.

‘Then you continue to blindly condemn my actions without allowing me a fair

hearing?’ Kurd pointed a bent, bony finger at the Hell Hound, a note of triumph

in his voice.

Trapped by his own convictions, Zalbar swallowed hard and steeled himself. ‘Very

well, lead on. But, I warn you – my opinions are not easily swayed.’

Zalbar’s resolve wavered once they entered the building and he was assaulted by

the smells of its interior. Then he caught sight of the gardener smirking at him

from the doorway and set his face in ‘ an expressionless mask as he was led up

the-,stairs to the second floor.

All that the Hell Hound had ever heard or imagined about Kurd’s work failed to

prepare him for the scene which greeted him when the pale man opened the door to

his workshop. Half a dozen large, heavy tables lined the walls, each set at a

strange angle so their surfaces were nearly upright. They were not unlike the

wooden frames court artists used to hold their work while painting. All the

tables were fitted with leather harnesses and straps. The wood and leather,

both, showed dried and crusted bloodstains. Four of the tables were occupied.

‘Most so-called medical men only repeat what has gone before…’ Kurd was

saying, ‘…the few who do attempt new techniques do so in a slipshod, trial

and-error fashion born of desperation and ignorance. If the patient dies, it is

difficult to determine if the cause was the original affliction, or the new

treatment itself. Here, under controlled conditions, I actually increase our

knowledge of the human body and its frailties. Watch your step, please…’

Grooves had been cut in the floor, running along beneath the tables and meeting

in a shallow pit at the room’s far end. As he stepped over one, Zalbar realized

that the system was designed to guide the flow of spilled blood. He shuddered.

There was a naked man on the first table and when he saw them coming he began to

writhe against his bonds. One arm was gone from the elbow down and he beat the

stump against the tabletop. Gibberings poured from his mouth. Zalbar noted with

disgust that the man’s tongue had been cut out.

‘Here,’ Kurd announced, pointing to a gaping wound in the man’s shoulder, ‘is an

example of my studies.’

The man had obviously lost control of his bodily functions. Excretions stained

his legs and the table. Kurd paid no attention to this, gesturing Zalbar closer

to the table as he used his long fingers to spread the edges of the shoulder

wound. ‘I have identified a point in the body which, if pressure like this …’

The man shrieked, his body arching against the restraining straps.

‘Stop!’ Zalbar shouted, losing any pretence of disinterest.

It was unlikely he could be heard over the tortured sounds of the victim, but

Kurd withdrew his bloody finger and the man sagged back on the table.

‘Well, did you see it?’ the pale man asked eagerly.

‘See what?’ Zalbar blinked, still shaken by what he had witnessed.

‘His stump, man! It stopped moving! Pressure or damage to this point can rob a

man of the use of his arm. Here, I’ll show you again.’

‘No!’ the Hell Hound ordered quickly, ‘I’ve seen enough.’

‘Then you see the value of my discovery?’

‘Ummm … where do you get your … subjects?’ Zalbar evaded.

‘From slavers, of course.’ Kurd frowned. ‘You can see the brands quite clearly.

If I worked with anything but slaves … well, that would be against Rankan

law.’

‘And how do you get them onto the tables? Slaves or not, I should think they

would fight to the death rather than submit to your knives.’

‘There is a herbalist in town,’ the pale man explained, ‘he supplies me with a

mild potion that renders them senseless. When they awaken, it’s too late for

effective resistance.’

Zalbar started to ask another question, but Kurd held up a restraining hand.

‘You still haven’t answered my question: do you now see the value of my work?’

The Hell Hound forced himself to look around the room again. ‘I see that you

genuinely believe the knowledge you seek is worthwhile,’ he said carefully, ‘but

I still feel subjecting men and women to this, even if they are slaves, is too

high a price.’

‘But it’s legal!’ Kurd insisted. ‘What I do here breaks no Rankan laws.’

‘ Ranke has many laws, you should remember that from our last meeting. Few live

within all of them and while there is some discretion exercised between which

laws are enforced and which are overlooked, 1 tell you now that I will be

personally watching for anything which will allow me to move against you. It

would be easier on both of us if you simply moved on now … for I won’t rest

while you are within my patrol-range.’

‘I am a law-abiding citizen.’ The pale man glared, drawing himself up. ‘I won’t

be driven from my home like a common

criminal.’

‘So you said before.’ The Hell Hound smiled as he turned to go. ‘But, you are no

longer in Ranke – remember that.’

‘That’s right,’ Kurd shouted after him, ‘we are no longer in Ranke. Remember

that yourself. Hell Hound.’

Four days later Zalbar’s confidence had ebbed considerably. Finishing his night

patrol of the city he turned down the Processional towards the wharves. This was

becoming a habit with him now, a final off-duty stretch-of-the-legs to organize

his thoughts in solitude before retiring to the crowded barracks. Though there

was still activity back in the Maze, this portion of town had been long asleep

and it was easy for the Hell Hound to lose himself in his ponderings as he paced

slowly along the moon-shadowed street.

The prince had rejected his appeal, pointing out that harassing a relatively

honest citizen was a poor use of time, particularly with the wave of killings

sweeping Sanctuary. Zalbar could not argue with the prince’s logic. Ever since

that Weaponshop had appeared, suddenly, in the Maze to dispense its deadly brand

of magic, killings were not only more frequent but of an uglier nature than

usual. Perhaps now that the shop had disappeared the madness would ease, but in

the meantime he could ill afford the time to pursue Kurd with the vigour

necessary to drive the vivisectionist from town.

For a moment Kurd’s impassioned defence of his work flashed across Zalbar’s

mind, only to be quickly repressed. New medical knowledge was worth having, but

slaves were still people. The systematic torture of another being in the name of

knowledge was…

‘Cover!’

Zalbar was prone on the ground before the cry had fully registered in his mind.

Reflexes honed by years in service to the Empire had him rolling, crawling,

scrabbling along the dirt in search of shelter without pausing to identify the

source of the warning. Twice, before he reached the shadows of an alley, he

heard the unmistakable hisss-pock of arrows striking nearby: ample proof that

the danger was not imaginary.

Finally, in the alley’s relative security, he snaked his sword from its scabbard

and breathlessly scanned the rooftops for the bowman assassin. A flicker of

movement atop a building across the street caught his eyes, but it failed to

repeat itself. He strained to penetrate the darkness. There was a crying moan,

ending in a cough; moments later, a poor imitation of a night bird’s whistle.

Though he was sure someone had just died, Zalbar didn’t twitch a muscle, holding

his position like a hunting cat. Who had died? The assassin? Or the person whose

call had warned him of danger? Even if it were the assassin there might still be

an accomplice lurking nearby.

As if in answer to this last thought a figure detached itself from a darkened

doorway and moved to the centre of the street. It paused, placed hands on hips

and hailed the alley wherein Zalbar had taken refuge.

‘It’s safe now. Hell Hound. We’ve rescued you from your own carelessness.’

Regaining his feet Zalbar sheathed his sword and stepped into the open. Even

before being hailed he had recognized the dark figure. A blue hawk-mask and

cloak could not hide the size or colouring of his rescuer, and if they had, the

Hell Hound would have known the smooth grace of those movements anywhere.

‘What carelessness is that, Jubal?’ he asked, hiding his own annoyance.

‘You have used this route three nights in a row, now,’ the ex-gladiator

announced. ‘That’s all the pattern an assassin needs.’

The Negro crime-lord did not seem surprised or annoyed that his . disguise had

been penetrated. If anything, Jubal gave an impression of being pleased with

himself as he bantered with the Hell Hound.

Zalbar realized that Jubal was right: on duty or off, a predictable pattern was

an invitation for ambush. He was spared the embarrassment of making this

admission, however, as the unseen saviour on the rooftops chose this moment to

dump the assassin’s body to the street. The two men studied it with disdain.

‘Though I appreciate your intervention,’ the Hell Hound commented drily, ‘it

would have been nice to take him alive. I’ll admit a passing curiosity as to who

sent him.’

‘I can tell you that.’ The hawk-masked figure smiled grimly. ‘It’s Kurd’s money

that filled that assassin’s purse, though it puzzles me why he would bear you

such a grudge.’

‘You knew about this in advance?’

‘One of my informants overheard the hiring in the Vulgar Unicorn. It’s amazing

how many normally careful people forget that a man can hear as well as talk.’

‘Why didn’t you send word to warn me in advance?’ ‘I had no proof.’ The black

man shrugged. ‘It’s doubtful my witness would be willing to testify in court.

Besides, I still owed you a debt from our last meeting… or have you forgotten

you saved my life once?’

‘I haven’t forgotten. As I told you then, I was only doing my duty. You owed me

nothing.’

‘… And I was only doing my duty as a Rankan citizen in assisting you tonight.’

Jubal’s teeth flashed in the moonlight.

‘Well, whatever your motive, you have my thanks.’

Jubal was silent a moment. ‘If you truly wish to express your gratitude,’ he

said at last, ‘would you join me now for a drink? There’s something I would like

to discuss with you.’

‘I… I’m afraid I can’t. It’s a long walk to your … house and I ‘~ have

duties tomorrow.’ .

‘I was thinking of the Vulgar Unicorn.’

‘The Vulgar Unicorn?’ Zalbar stammered, genuinely astonished. ‘Where my

assassination was planned. I can’t go in there.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well… if for no other reason than that I am a Hell Hound. It would do neither

of us any good to be seen together publicly, much less in the Vulgar Unicorn.’

‘You could wear my mask and cloak. That would hide your uniform and face. Then,

to any onlooker it would only appear that I was having a drink with one of my

men.’

For a moment Zalbar wavered in indecision, then the audacity of a Hell Hound in

a blue hawk-mask seized his fancy and he laughed aloud. ‘Why not?’ he agreed,

reaching for the offered disguise. ‘I’ve always wondered what the inside of that

place looked like.’

Zalbar had not realized how bright the moonlight was until he stepped through

the door of the Vulgar Unicorn. A few small oil lamps were the only illumination

and those were shielded towards the wall, leaving most of the interior in heavy

shadow. Though he could see figures huddled at several tables as he followed

Jubal into the main room, he could not make out any individual’s features.

There was one, however, whose face he did not need to see, the unmistakably

gaunt form of Hakiem the storyteller slouched at a central table. A small bowl

of wine sat before him, apparently forgotten, as the tale-spinner nodded in

near-slumber. Zalbar harboured a secret liking for the ancient character and

would have passed the table quietly, but Jubal caught the Hell Hound’s eye and

winked broadly. Withdrawing a coin from his sword-belt, the slaver tossed it in

an easy arch towards the storyteller’s table.

Hakiem’s hand moved like a flicker of light and the coin disappeared in mid

flight. His drowsy manner remained unchanged.

‘That’s payment enough for a hundred stories, old man,’ Jubal rumbled softly,

‘but tell them somewhere else … and about someone else.’

Moving with quiet dignity, the storyteller rose to his feet, bestowed a

withering gaze on both of them, and stalked regally from the room. His bowl of

wine had disappeared with his departure.

In the brief moment that their eyes met, Zalbar had felt an intense intelligence

and was certain that the old man had penetrated both mask and cloak to coldly

observe his true identity. Hastily revising his opinion of the gaunt tale

-spinner, the Hell Hound recalled Jubal’s description of an informant whom

people forgot could hear as well as see and knew whose spying had truly saved

his life.

The slaver sank down at the recently vacated table and immediately received two

unordered goblets of expensive qualis. Settling next to him, Zalbar noted that

this table had a clear view of all entrances and exits of the tavern and his

estimation of Hakiem went up yet another notch.

‘If I had thought of it sooner, I would have suggested that your man on the

rooftop join us,’ the Hell Hound commented. ‘I feel I owe him a drink of thanks.’

‘That man is a woman, Moria; she works the darkness better than I do … and

without the benefits of protective coloration.’

‘Well, I’d still like to thank her.’

‘I’d advise against it.’ The slaver grinned. ‘She hates Rankans, and the Hell

Hounds in particular. She only intervened at my orders.’

‘You remind me of several questions.’ Zalbar set his goblet down. ‘Why did you

act on my behalf tonight? And how is it that you know the cry the army uses to

warn of archers?’

‘In good time. First you must answer a question of mine. I’m not used to giving

out information for free, and since I told you the identity of your enemy,

perhaps now you can tell me why Kurd would set an assassin on your trail?’

After taking a thoughtful sip of his drink, Zalbar began to explain the

situation between himself and Kurd. As the story unfolded, the Hell Hound found

he was saying more than was necessary, and was puzzled as to why he would reveal

to Jubal the anger and bitterness he had kept secret even from his own force.

Perhaps, it was because, unlike his comrades whom he respected, Zalbar saw the

slaver as a man so corrupt that his own darkest thoughts and doubts would seem

commonplace by comparison.

Jubal listened in silence until the Hell Hound was finished, then nodded slowly.

‘Yes, that makes sense now,’ he murmured. .

‘The irony is that at the moment of attack I was bemoaning my inability to do

anything about Kurd. For a while, at least, an assassin is unnecessary. I am

under orders to leave Kurd alone.’

Instead of laughing, Jubal studied his opposite thoughtfully. ‘Strange you

should say that.’ He spoke with measured care. ‘I also have a problem I am

currently unable to deal with. Perhaps we can solve each other’s problems.’

‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’ Zalbar asked, suddenly

suspicious.

‘In a way. Actually this is better. Now, in return for the favour I must ask, I

can offer something you want. If you address yourself to my problem, I’ll put an

end to Kurd’s practice for you.’

‘I assume that what you want is illegal. If you really think I’d…’

‘It is not illegal!’ Jubal spat with venom. ‘I don’t need your help to break the

law, that’s easy enough to do despite the efforts of your so-called elite force.

No, Hell Hound, I find it necessary to offer you a bribe to do your job – to

enforce the law.’

‘Any citizen can appeal to any Hell Hound for assistance.’ Zalbar felt his own

anger grow. ‘If it is indeed within the law, you don’t have to…’

‘Fine!’ the slaver interrupted. ‘Then, as a Rankan citizen I ask you to

investigate and stop a wave of murders – someone is killing my people; hunting

blue-masks through the streets as if they were diseased animals.’

‘I … I see.’

‘And I see that this comes as no surprise,’ Jubal snarled. ‘Well, Hell Hound, do

your duty. I make no pretence about my people, but they are being executed

without a trial or hearing. That’s murder. Or do you hesitate because it’s one

of your own who’s doing the killing?’

Zalbar’s head came up with a snap and Jubal met his stare with a humourless

smile.

‘That’s right, I know the murderer, not that it’s been difficult to learn.

Tempus has been open enough with his beagging.’

‘Actually,’ Zalbar mused drily, ‘I was wondering why you haven’t dealt with him

yourself if you know he’s guilty. I’ve heard hawk-masks have killed

transgressors when their offence was far less certain.’

Now it was Jubal who averted his eyes in discomfort. ‘We’ve tried,’ he admitted,

‘Tempus seems exceptionally hard to down. Some of my men went against my orders

and used magical weapons. The result was four more bloody masks to his credit.’

The Hell Hound could hear the desperate appeal in the slaver’s confession.

‘I cannot allow him to continue his sport, but the price of stopping him grows

fearfully high. I’m reduced to asking for your intervention. You, more than the

others, have prided yourself in performing your duties in strict adherence to

the codes of justice. Tell me, doesn’t the law apply equally to everyone?’

A dozen excuses and explanations leapt to Zalbar’s lips, then a cold wave of

anger swept them away. ‘You’re right, though I never thought you’d be the one to

point out my duty to me. A killer in uniform is still a killer and should be

punished for his crimes … all of them. If Tempus is your murderer, I’ll

personally see to it that he’s dealt with.’

‘Very well.’ Jubal nodded. ‘And in return, I’ll fill my end of the bargain

Kurd will no longer work in Sanctuary.’

Zalbar opened his mouth to protest. The temptation was almost too great – if

Jubal could make good his promise – but, no, ‘I’d have to insist that your

actions remain within the law,’ he murmured reluctantly. ‘I can’t ask you to do

anything illegal.’

‘Not only is it legal, it’s done! Kurd is out of business as of now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Kurd can’t work without subjects,’ the slaver smiled, ‘and I’m his supplier

– or I was. Not only have I ended his supply of slaves, I’ll spread the word

to the other slavers that if they deal with him I’ll undercut their prices in

the other markets and drive them out of town as well.’

Zalbar smiled with new distaste beneath his mask. ‘You knew what he was doing

with the slaves and you dealt with him anyway?’

‘Killing slaves for knowledge is no worse than having slaves kill each other in

the arena for entertainment. Either is an unpleasant reality in our world.’

Zalbar winced at the sarcasm in the slaver’s voice, but was unwilling to abandon

his position.

‘We have different views of fighting. You were forced into the arena as a

gladiator while I freely enlisted in the army. Still, we share a common

experience: however terrible the battle: however frightful the odds, we had a

chance. We could fight back and survive – or at least take our foe-men with us

as we fell. Being trussed up like a sacrificial animal, helpless to do anything

but watch your enemy – no, not your enemy – your tormentor’s weapon descend on

you again and again … No being, slave or freedman, should be forced into that.

I cannot think of an enemy I hate enough to condemn to such a fate.’

‘I can think of a few,’ Jubal murmured, ‘but then, I’ve never . shared your

ideals. Though we both believe in justice we seek it in different ways.’

‘Justice?’ the Hell Hound sneered. ‘That’s the second time you’ve used that word

tonight. I must admit it sounds strange coming from your lips.’

‘Does it?’ the slaver asked. ‘I’ve always dealt fairly with my own or with those

who do business with me. We both acknowledge the corruption in our world. Hell

Hound. The difference is that, unlike yourself, I don’t try to protect the world

– I’m hard-pressed to protect myself and my own.’

Zalbar set down his unfinished drink. ‘I’ll leave your mask and cloak outside,’

he said levelly, ‘I fear that the difference is too great for us to enjoy a

drink together.’

Anger flashed in the slaver’s eyes. ‘But you will investigate the murders?’

‘I will,’ the Hell Hound promised, ‘and as the complaining citizen you’ll be

informed of the results of my investigation.’

Tempus was working on his sword when Zalbar and Razkuli approached him. They had

deliberately waited to confront him here in the barracks rather than at his

favoured haunt, the Lily Garden. Despite everything that had or might occur,

they were all Army and what was to be said should not be heard by civilians

outside their elite club.

Tempus favoured them with a sullen glare, then brazenly returned his attention

to his work. It was an unmistakable affront as he was only occupied with filing

a series of saw-like teeth into one edge of his sword: a project that should run

a poor second to speaking with the Hell Hound’s captain.

‘I would have a word with you, Tempus,’ Zalbar announced, swallowing his anger.

‘It’s your prerogative,’ the other replied without looking up.

Razkuli shifted his feet, but a look from his friend stilled him.

‘I have had a complaint entered against you,’ Zalbar continued. ‘A complaint

which has been confirmed by numerous witnesses. I felt it only fair to hear your

side of the story before I went to Kadakithis with it.’

At the mention of the prince’s name, Tempus raised his head and ceased his

filing. ‘And the nature of the complaint?’ he asked darkly.

‘It is said you’re committing wanton murder during your off-duty hours.’

‘Oh, that. It’s not wanton. I only hunt hawk-masks.’

Zalbar had been prepared for many possible .responses to his accusations: angry

denial, a mad dash for freedom, a demand for proof or witnesses. This easy

admission, however, caught him totally off-balance. ‘You … you admit your

guilt?’ he managed at last, surprise robbing him of his composure.

‘Certainly. I’m only surprised anyone has bothered to complain. No one should

miss the killers I’ve taken … least of all you.’

‘Well, it’s true I hold no love for Jubal or his sell-swords,’ Zalbar admitted,

‘but, there are still due processes of law to be followed. If you want to see

them brought to justice you should have…’

‘Justice?’ Tempus laughed. ‘Justice has nothing to do with it.’

‘Then why hunt them?’

‘For practice,’ Tempus informed them, studying his serrated sword once more. ‘An

unexercised sword grows slow. I like to keep a hand in whenever possible and

supposedly the sell-swords Jubal hires are the best in town – though, to tell

the truth, if the ones I’ve faced are any example, he’s being cheated.’

‘That’s all?’ Razkuli burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘That’s

all the reason you need to disgrace your uniform?’

Zalbar held up a warning hand, but Tempus only laughed at the two of them.

‘That’s right, Zalbar, better keep a leash on your dog there. If you can’t stop

his yapping, I’ll do it for you.’

For a moment Zalbar thought he might have to restrain His friend, but Razkuli

had passed explosive rage. The swarthy Hell Hound glared at Tempus with a deep,

glowering hatred which Zalbar knew could not be dimmed now with reason or

threats. Grappling with his own anger, Zalbar turned, at last, to Tempus.

‘Will you be as arrogant when the prince asks you to explain your actions?’ he

demanded.

‘I won’t have to.’ Tempus grinned again. ‘Kitty-Cat will never call me to task

for anything. You got your way on the Street of Red Lanterns, but that was

before the prince fully comprehended my position here. He’d even reverse that

decision if he hadn’t taken a public stance on it.’

Zalbar was frozen by anger and frustration as he realized the truth of Tempus’s

words. ‘And just what is your position here?’

‘If you have to ask,’ Tempus laughed, ‘I can’t explain. But you must realize

that you can’t count on the prince to support your charges. Save yourselves a

lot of grief by accepting me as someone outside the law’s jurisdiction.’ He

rose, sheathed his sword and started to leave, but Zalbar blocked his path.

‘You may be right. You may indeed be above the law, but if there is a god – any

god – watching over us now, the time is not far off when your sword will miss

and we’ll be rid of you. Justice is a natural process. It can’t be swayed for

long by a prince’s whims.’

‘Don’t call upon the gods unless you’re ready to accept their interference.’

Tempus grimaced. ‘You’d do well to heed that warning from one who knows.’

Before Zalbar could react, Razkuli was lunging forwards, his slim wrist-dagger

darting for Tempus’s throat. It was too late for the Hell Hound captain to

intervene either physically or verbally, but then, Tempus did not seem to

require outside help.

Moving with lazy ease, Tempus slapped his left hand over the speeding point, his

palm taking the full impact of Razkuli’s vengeance. The blade emerged from the

back of his hand and blood spurted freely for a moment, but Tempus seemed not to

notice. A quick wrench with the already wounded hand and the knife was twisted

from Razkuli’s grip. Then Tempus’s right hand closed like a vice on the throat

of his dumbfounded attacker, lifting him, turning him, slamming him against a

wall and pinning him there with his toes barely touching the floor.

.’Tempus!’ Zalbar barked, his friend’s danger breaking through the momentary

paralysis brought on by the sudden explosion of action.

‘Don’t worry. Captain,’ Ternpus responded in a calm voice. ‘If you would be so

kind?’

He extended his bloody hand towards Zalbar and the tall Hell Hound gingerly

withdrew the dagger from the awful wound. As the knife came clear the clotting

ooze of blood erupted into a steady stream. Tempus studied the scarlet cascade

with distaste, then thrust his hand against Razkuli’s face.

‘Lick it, dog,’ he ordered. ‘Lick it clean, and be thankful I don’t make you

lick the floor as well!’

Helpless and fighting for each breath, the pinned man hesitated only a moment

before extending his tongue in a feeble effort to comply with the demand.

Quickly impatient, Tempus wiped his hand in a bloody smear across Razkuli’s face

and mouth, then he examined his wound again.

As Zalbar watched, horrified, the seepage from the wound slowed from flow to

trickle and finally to a slow ooze – all in the matter of seconds.

Apparently satisfied with the healing process, Tempus turned dark eyes to his

captain. ‘Every dog gets one bite – but the next time your pet crosses me, I’ll

take him down and neither you nor the prince will be able to stop me.’

With that he wrenched Razkuli from the wall and dashed him to the floor at

Zalbar’s feet. With both Hell Hounds held motionless by his brutality, he strode

from the room without a backward glance.

The suddenness and intensity of the exchange had shocked even Zalbar’s

battlefield reflexes into immobility, but with Tempus’s departure, control

flooded back into his limbs as if he had been released from a spell. Kneeling

beside his friend, he hoisted Razkuli into a sitting position to aid his

laboured breathing.

‘Don’t try to talk,’ he ordered, reaching to wipe the blood smear from Razkuli’s

face, but the gasping man jerked his head back and forth, refusing both the

order and the help.

Gathering his legs under him, the short Hell Hound surged to his feet and

retained the upright position, though he had to cling to the wall for support.

For several moments, his head sagged weakly as he drew breath in long ragged

gasps, then he lifted his gaze to meet Zalbar’s.

‘I must kill him. I cannot … live in the same world and … breathe the same

air with one who … shamed me so … and still call myself a man.’

For a moment, Razkuli swayed as if speaking had drained him of all energy, then

he carefully lowered himself onto a bench, propping his back against the wall.

‘I must kill him,’ he repeated, his voice steadying. ‘Even if it means fighting

you.’

‘You won’t have to fight me, my friend.’ Zalbar sat beside him. ‘Instead accept

me as a partner. Tempus must be stopped, and I fear it will take both of us to

do it. Even then we may not be enough.’

The swarthy Hell Hound nodded in slow agreement. ‘Perhaps if we acquired one of

those hellish weapons that have been causing so much trouble in the Maze?’ he

suggested.

‘I’d rather bed a viper. From the reports I’ve heard they cause more havoc for

the wielder than for the victim. No, the plan I have in mind is of an entirely

different nature.’

The bright flowers danced gaily in the breeze as Zalbar finished his lunch.

Razkuli was not guarding his back today: that individual was back at the

barracks enjoying a much earned rest after their night’s labours. Though he

shared his friend’s fatigue, Zalbar indulged himself with this last pleasure

before retiring.

‘You sent for me. Hell Hound?’

Zalbar didn’t need to turn his head to identify his visitor. He had been

watching him from the corner of his eyes throughout his dusty approach.

‘Sit down, Jubal,’ he instructed. ‘I thought you’d like to hear about my

investigations.’

‘It’s about time,’ the slaver grumbled, sinking to the ground. ‘It’s been a week

– I was starting to doubt the seriousness of your pledge. Now, tell me why you

couldn’t find the killer.’

The Hell Hound ignored the sneer in Jubal’s voice. ‘Tempus is the killer, just

as you said,’ he answered casually.

‘You’ve confirmed it? When is he being brought to trial?’

Before Zalbar could answer a terrible scream broke the calm afternoon. The Hell

Hound remained unmoved, but Jubal spun towards the sound. ‘What was that?’ he

demanded.

‘That,’ Zalbar explained, ‘is the noise a man makes when Kurd goes looking for

knowledge.’

‘But I thought … I swear to you, this is not my doing!’

‘Don’t worry about it, Jubal.’ The Hell Hound smiled and waited for the slaver

to sit down again. ‘You were asking about Tempus’s trial?’

‘That’s right,’ the black man agreed, though visibly shaken.

‘He’ll never come to trial.’

‘Because of thatT Jubal pointed to the house. ‘I can stop…’

‘Will you be quiet and listen! The court will never see Tempus because the

prince protects him. That’s why I hadn’t investigated him before your

complaint!’

‘Royal protection!’ The slaver spat. ‘So he’s free to hunt my people still.’

‘Not exactly.’ Zalbar indulged in an extravagant yawn.

‘But you said…’

‘I said I’d deal with him, and in your words “it’s done”. Tempus won’t be

reporting for duty today … or ever.’

Jubal started to ask something, but another scream drowned out his words.

Surging to his feet he glared at Kurd’s house. ‘I’m going to find out where that

slave came from, and when I do…’

‘It came from me, and if you value your people you won’t insist on his release.’

TheslaverturnedtogapeattheseatedHellHound.’Youmean…’

‘Tempus,’ Zalbar nodded. ‘Kurd told me of a drug he used to subdue his slaves,

so I got some from Stulwig and put it in my comrade’s krrf. He almost woke up

when we branded him … but Kurd was willing to accept my little peace offering

with no questions asked. We even cut out his tongue as an extra measure of

friendship.’

Another scream came – a low animal moan which lingered in the air as the two men

listened.

‘I couldn’t ask for a more fitting revenge,’ Jubal said at last, extending his

hand. ‘He’ll be a long time dying.’

‘If he dies at all,’ Zalbar commented, accepting the handshake. ‘He heals very

fast, you know.’

With that the two men parted company, mindless of the shrieks that followed

them.

THE LIGHTER SIDE OF SANCTUARY

The reader response to the first volume of Thieves’ World has been overwhelming

and heartwarming. (For those of you who were not aware of it: you can write to

me or any other author in care of their publisher.) The volume of correspondence

helped to sell volumes two and three and prompted a Thieves’ World wargame soon

to be released from the Chaosium. It seems that none of our Thieves’ World

readers realize that anthologies in general don’t sell and that fantasy

anthologies specifically are sudden death.

While the letters received have been brimming with enthusiasm and praise, there

has been one comment/criticism which has recurred in much of the correspondence.

Specifically, people have noted that Sanctuary is incredibly grim. It seems that

the citizens of the town never laugh, or when they do it is forcefully stifled

… like the time Kitty-Cat spilled wine down the front of his tunic while

trying to toast the health of his brother, the emperor.

This is a valid gripe. First of all because no town is totally dismal. Second,

because those readers familiar with my other works are accustomed to finding

some humour buried in the pages – even in a genocidal war between lizards and

bugs. What’s worse, in reviewing the stories in this second volume, I am

painfully aware that the downward spiral of Sanctuary has continued rather than

reversing itself.

As such I have taken it upon myself as editor to provide the reader with a brief

glimpse of the bright side of the town – the benefits and advantages of living

in the worst hellhole in the Empire.

To this end let us turn to a seldom seen, never quoted document issued by the

Sanctuary Chamber of Commerce shortly before it went out of business. The.fact

that Kitty-Cat insisted the brochure contain some modicum of truth doubtless

contributed to the document’s lack of success. Nonetheless, for your enjoyment

and edification, here are selected excerpts from

SANCTUARY VACATION CAPITAL OF THE RANKAN EMPIRE

Every year tourists flock to Sanctuary by the tens, drawn by the rumours of

adventure and excitement which flourish in every dark corner of the Empire. They

are never disappointed that they chose Sanctuary. Our city iseverything it is

rumoured to be – and more! Many visitors never leave and those that do can

testily that the lives to which they return seem dull in comparison with the

heartstopping action they found in this personable town.

If you, as a merchant, are looking to expand or relocate your business consider

scenic Sanctuary. Where else can you find all these features in one locale?

BUSINESS OPPORTUNITIES

Property – Land in Sanctuary is cheap! Whether you want to build in the

swamplands to the east of town, or west in the desert fringes, you’ll , find

large parcels of land available at temptingly low prices. If you seek a more

central location for your business, just ask. Most shop owners in Sanctuary are

willing to surrender their building, stock and staff for the price of a one-way

passage out of town.

Labour – There is no shortage of willing workers in Sanctuary. You’ll find most

citizens are for hire and will do anything for a price. Moreover, the array of

talents and skills available in our city is nothing short of startling.

Abilities you never thought were marketable are bought and sold freely in

Sanctuary – and the price is always right!

For those who prefer slave labour, the selection available in Sanctuary is

diverse and plentiful. You’ll be as surprised as the slaves themselves are by

who shows up on the auction block. There, as everywhere in Sanctuary, bargains

abound for one with a sharp eye … or sword.

Materials-l{ the remoteness of the town’s location makes you hesitate – never

fear. Anything of value in the Empire is sold in Sanctuary. In fact, commodities

you may have been told were not for sale often appear in the stalls and shops of

this amazing town. Don’t bother asking the seller how he got his stock. Just

rest assured that in Sanctuary no one will ask how you came by yours, either.

LIFESTYLES

Social Life – As the ancients say, one does not live by bread alone.

Similarly, a citizen of the Rankan Empire requires an active social life to

balance his business activity. Here is where Sanctuary truly excels. It has

often been said that day to day life in Sanctuary is an adventure without

parallel.

Religions – For those with an eye for the after-life, the religious offerings in

a given area must withstand close scrutiny. Well, our town welcomes such

scrutinizers with open arms. Every Rankan deity and cult is represented in

Sanctuary, as well many not in open evidence elsewhere in the Empire. Old gods

and forgotten rites exist and flourish alongside the more accepted traditions,

adding to the town’s quaint charm. Nor are our temples reserved for devout true

-believers only. Most shrines welcome visitors of other beliefs and many allow

– nay, require – audience participation in their curious native rituals.

Night Life – Unlike many cities in the Empire which roll up their streets with

the setting sun, Sanctuary comes to life at night. In fact, many of its citizens

exist for the night life to a point where you seldom see them by the light of

day. However conservative or jaded your taste in entertainment might be, you’ll

have the time of your life in the shadows of Sanctuary. Our Street of Red

Lanterns alone offers a wide array of amusements, from the quiet elegance of the

Ambrosia House to the more bizarre pleasures available at the House of Whips. If

slumming is your pleasure, you need look no further than your own doorstep.

Social Status – Let’s face it: everybody likes to feel superior to somebody.

Well, nowhere is superiority as easy to come by as it is in Sanctuary. A Rankan

citizen of moderate means is a wealthy man by Sanctuary standards, and will be

treated as such by its inhabitants. Envious eyes will follow your passing and

people will note your movements and customs with flattering attentiveness. Even

if your funds are less than adequate in your own opinion, it is still easy to

feel that you are better off than the average citizen of Sanctuary – if only on

a moral scale. We can guarantee, without reservation, that however low your

opinion of yourself might be, there will be somebody in Sanctuary you will be

superior to.

A Word About Crime – You have probably heard rumours of the high crime rate in

Sanctuary. We admit to having had our problems in the past, but that’s behind us

now. One need only look at the huge crowds that gather to watch the daily

hangings and impalements to realize that the citizens of Sanctuary’s support for

law and order is at an all-time high. As a result of the new Governor’s anti

-crime programme, we are pleased to announce that last year the rate of reported

crime, per day, in Sanctuary was not greater than that of cities twice our size.

IN SUMMARY

Sanctuary is a place of opportunity for a far-thinking opportunist. Now is the

time to move. Now, while property values are plummeting and the economy and the

people are depressed. Where better to invest your money, your energies and your

life than in this rapidly growing city of the future? Even our worst critics

acknowledge the potential of Sanctuary when they describe it as a ‘town with

nowhere to go but up!’