and might be turned towards ending his own misery.
2
Of late life had been kinder to the woman known in the town simply as Cythen.
Her high leather boots were not only new but had been made to fit her. Her warm,
fur-lined cloak was new as well: made by an old Downwinds woman who had
discovered that, since the arrival of the Beysib and their gold, there were more
things to do with a stray cat than eat it. Yes, since the Beysib had come, life
was better than it had been –
Cythen hesitated, repressed a wave of remembrance and, reminding herself that it
was dangerous folly to remember the past, continued on her way. Perhaps life was
better for the Downwinds woman; perhaps her own life was now better than it had
been a year before, but it was not unconditionally better.
The young woman moved easily through the inky, twilight shadows of the Maze,
avoiding the unfathomed pools of detritus that oozed up between the ancient
cobblestones. Tiny pairs of eyes focused on her at the sound other approach and
scampered noisily away. The larger, more feral creatures of the hell-hole
watched in utter silence from the deeper shadows of doorways and blind alleys.
She strode past them all, looking neither right nor left, but missing no flicker
of motion.
She paused by an alley apparently no different from any of the dozens she had
already passed by and, after assuring herself that no intelligent eyes marked
her, entered it. There was no light now; she guided herself with her fingertips
brushing the grimy walls, counting the doorways: one, two, three, four. The