In the tempest... 

In the tempest... 

She jerked away, palmed her hair back, stood glaring at him with red flecks in her eyes. She 
shouted something back, her lips curled in a flash of light, but the gods' roaring blotted out her 
words. Then she merely turned her back to him, raised her arms to heaven, and perhaps began to 
pray. 

He had no more time for her: the gods' war was his 

BEYOND SANCTUARY 


JANET MORRIS 

Dedication 
Beyond Sanctuary is dedicated with respect and affection to Bob Asprin and Lynn Abbey. 
And to the entire motley crew of TW writers: Long may we wave. 


Contents 

Acknowledgement 


Book One : WIZARD WEATHER Book One : WIZARD WEATHER 
Book Three: MAGEBLOOD 
Book Four : PEACE FALLS 
Book Five : UP WIZARDWALL 

Acknowledgment 

This novel evolved from a concept and characters developed within the framework of the 
collaborative THIEVES' WORLD anthologies edited by Robert Lynn Asprin. Without Bob's 
support, patience and enthusiasm, this project would not have been possible. Lynn Abbey provided 
invaluable assistance, not only in clarifying logistical considerations and geography, but by providing 
me with additional, unpublished material from the Sanctuary universe: her encouragement and 
inventiveness are much appreciated. Andrew Offutt and C. J. Cherryh read parts of the manuscript 
before publication and made valuable suggestions. Lastly, to all my fellow TW authors, I extend my 
heartfelt thanks: every writer who has entered the Sanctuary construct has enriched the whole. 

Book One : 
WIZARD WEATHER 


In the archmage's sumptuous purple bedroom, the woman astride him took two pins from her 
silver-shot hair. It was darkhis choice; and damp with cloying shadowshis romanticism. A 
conjured moon in a spellbound sky was being swallowed by effigy-clouds where the vaulted roof 
indubitably yet arced, even as he shuddered under the tutored and inexorable attentions of the girl 
Lastel had brought to his party. She had refused to tell him her name because he would not give his, 
but had told him what she would do for him so eloquently with her eyes and her body that he'd 


spent the entire evening figuring out a way the two of them might slip up here unnoticed. Not that he 
feared her escort's jealousythough the drug dealer might conceivably entertain such a 
sentimentLastel no longer had the courage (or the contractual protective wordings) to dare a 
reprisal against a Hazard-class mage. 

spent the entire evening figuring out a way the two of them might slip up here unnoticed. Not that he 
feared her escort's jealousythough the drug dealer might conceivably entertain such a 
sentimentLastel no longer had the courage (or the contractual protective wordings) to dare a 
reprisal against a Hazard-class mage. 

The domed and spired estuary of venality which is Sanctuary, nadir of the empire called Ranke; 
the unmitigated evil he had fielded for decades from his swamp-encircled mageguild fortress; the 
compromises he had made to hold sway over curmudgeon, courtesan and criminal (so audacious 
that even the bounds of magics and planeworlds had been eroded by his efforts, and his fellow 
adepts felled on occasion by demons roused from forbidden defiles to do his bidding here at the 
end of creation where no balance remains between logic and faith, law and nature, or heaven and 
hell); the disingenuous methods through which his will was worked, plan by tortuous plan, upon a 
town so hateful and immoral that both the flaunted gods and magicians' devils agreed that its 
inhabitants deserved no less dastardly a fateall of this, and more, will fade from him in the time it 
takes a star to burn out, falling from the sky. 

Now, the First Hazard glimpses her movement, though he is close to ejaculation, sputtering with 
sensations that for years he has assumed he had outgrown, or forgotten how to feel. Senility creeps 
upon the finest flesh when a body is maintained for millennia, and into the deepest mind, through 
thousands of years. He doesn't look his age, or tend to think of it. The years are his, mandated. 
Only a very special kind of enemy could defeat him, and those were few and far between. Simple 
death, morbidity or the spells of his brothers were like gnats he kept away by the perfume of his 
sweat: merely the proper diet, herbs and spells and consummated will, had long ago vanquished 
them as far as he was concerned. 

So strange to lust, to desire a particular woman; he was amused, joyous; he had not felt so good 
in years. A tiny thrill of caution had horripilated his nape early on, when he noticed the silvering of 
her nightblack hair, but this girl was not old enough to be"Ahhh!" Her premeditated rippling takes 
him over passion's edge, and he is falling, place and provenance forgotten, not a terrible adept 
wrenching the world about to suit his whim and comfort, but just a man. 

In that instant, eyes defocused, he sees but does not note the diamond sparkle of the rods 
poised above him; his ears are filled with his own breathing; the song of entrapment she sings softly 
has him before he thinks to think, or thinks to fear, or thinks to move. 

By then, the rods, their sharp fine points touching his arched throat, owned him. He could not 
move; not his body nor his soul responded; his mind could not control his tongue. Thinking bitterly 
of the indignity of being frozen like a rearing stallion, he hoped his flesh would slump once life had 
fled. As he felt the points enter into his skin and begin to suck at the thread binding him to life, his 
mortification marshaled his talents: he cleared his vision, forced his eyes to obey his mind's 
command. Though he was a great sorcerer, he was not omnipotent: he couldn't manage to make his 
lips frame a curse to cast upon her, just watched the free agent Cimewho had slipped, disguised, 
into so many mages' beds of latesip the life from him relishingly. So slow she was about it he had 
time to be thankful she did not take him through his eyes. The song she sings has cost her much to 
learn, and the death she staves off will not be so kind as his. Could he have spoken, then, resigned 
to it, he would have thanked her: it is no shame to be brought down by an opponent so worthy. 
They paid their prices to the same host. He set about composing his exit, seeking his meadow, 
starshaped and evergreen, where he did his work when meditation whisked him into finer 
awarenesses than flesh could ever share. If he could seat himself there, in his established place of 


power, then his death was nothing, his flesh a fingernail, overlong and ready to be pared. 

power, then his death was nothing, his flesh a fingernail, overlong and ready to be pared. 

When his chest neither rose nor fell, she slid off him and ceased singing. She licked the tips of 
her wands and wound them back up in her thick black hair. She soothed his body down, arranged 
it decorously, donned her party clothes, and kissed him once on the tip of his nose before heading, 
humming, back down the stairs to where Lastel and the party still waited. As she passed the bar, 
she snatched a piece of citrus and crushed it in her palms, dripping the juice upon her wrists, 
smearing it behind her ears and in the hollow of her throat. Some of these folk might be clumsy 
necromancers and thrice-cursed merchants with store-bought charms-to-ward-off-charms bleeding 
them dry of soul and purse, but there was nothing wrong with their noses. 

Lastel's bald head and wrestler's shoulders, impeccable in customed silk velvet, were easy to 
spot. He didn't even glance down at her, but continued chatting with one of the prince/ governor 
Kadakithis' functionaries, Molin Something-or-other, Vashanka's official priest. It was New Year's 
holiday, and the week was bursting with festivities which the Rankan overlords must observe, and 
seem to sanction: since (though they had conquered and subjugated Ilsig lands and Ilsig peoples so 
that some Rankans dared call llsigs "Wrigglies" to their faces) they had failed to suppress the 
worship of the god Us and his self-begotten pantheon, word had come down from the emperor 
himself that Rankans must endure with grace the Wrigglies' celebration of Us' creation of the world 
and renewal of the year. Now, especially, with Ranke pressed into a war of attrition in the north, 
was no time to allow dissension to develop on her flanks from so paltry a matter as the perquisites 
of obscure and weakling gods. 

This uprising among the buffer states on Upper Ranke's northernmost frontier and the inflated 
rumors of slaughter coming back from Wizardwall's mountainous skirts all out of proportion to 
reasonable numbers dominated Molin's monologue: "And what say you, esteemed lady? Could it be 
that Nisibisi magicians have made their peace with Mygdon's barbarian lord, and found him a path 
through Wizardwall's fastness? You are well-traveled, it is obvious Could it be true that the 
border insurrection is Mygdonia's doing, and their hordes so fearsome as we have been led to 
believe? Or is it the Rankan treasury that is suffering, and a northern incursion the cure for our 
economic ills?" 

Lastel flickered puffy lids down at her from ravaged cheeks and his turgid arm went around her 
waist. She smiled up at him reassuringly, then favored the priest: "Your Holiness, sadly I must 
confess that the Mygdonian threat is very real. I have studied realms and magics, in Ranke and 
beyond. If you wish a consultation, and Lastel permits" she batted the thickest lashes in 
Sanctuary "I shall gladly attend you, some day when we both are fit for 'solemn' discourse. But 
now I am too filled with wine and revel, and must interrupt youyour pardon pleasethat my 
escort bear me home to bed." She cast her glance upon the ballroom floor, demure and 
concentrating on her slippered feet poking out under amber skirts. "Lastel, I must have the night air, 
or faint away. Where is our host? We must thank him for a more complete hospitality than I'd 
thought to find" 

The habitually pompous priest was simpering with undisguised delight, causing Lastel to raise an 
eyebrow (though Cime tugged coquettishly at his sleeve) and inquire as to its source: "Lord Molin?" 

"It is nothing, dear man, nothing. Just so long since I have heard court Rankeneand from the 
mouth of a real lady" The Rankan priest, knowing well that his wife's reputation bore no 
mitigation, chose to make sport of her, and of his town, before the foreign noblewoman did. And to 


make it more clear to Lastel that the joke was on themthe two Sanctuarites and for the 
amusement of the voluptuous gray-eyed woman, he bowed low, and never did answer her genteel 
query as to the whereabouts of the First Hazard. 

make it more clear to Lastel that the joke was on themthe two Sanctuarites and for the 
amusement of the voluptuous gray-eyed woman, he bowed low, and never did answer her genteel 
query as to the whereabouts of the First Hazard. 

Outside, torchlit, their breath steaming white through cold-sharpened night air, waiting for their 
ivory-screened wagon, they giggled over the distinction between "serious" and "solemn": the First 
Hazard had been serious, Molin was solemn; Tempus the Hell Hound was serious, Prince 
Kadakithis, solemn; the destabilization campaign they were undertaking in Sanctuary under the 
auspices of a Mygdonian-funded Nisibisi witch (who had come to Lastel, alias One-Thumb, in the 
guise of a comely caravan mistress hawking Garonne drugs) was serious; the threat of northern 
invasion, downcountry at the Empire's anus, was most solemn. As her laughter tinkled, he nuzzled 
her: "Did you manage to ?" 

"Oh, yes. I had a perfectly lovely time. What a wonderful idea of yours this was," she 
whispered, still speaking court Rankene, a dialect she had been using exclusively in public ever since 
the two of themthe Maze-dweller One-Thumb and the escaped sorcerer-slayer Cimehad 
decided that the best cover for them was that which her magic provided: they need not do more. 
Her brother Tempus knew that Lastel was actually One-Thumb, and that she was with him, but he 
would hesitate to reveal them: he had given his silence, if not his blessing, to their union. Within 
reasonable limits, they considered themselves safe to bargain lives and information to both sides in 
the coming crisis. Even now, with the war barely under way, they had already started. This night's 
work was her pleasure and his profit. When they reached his modest east-side estate, she showed 
him the portion of what she had done to the first Hazard which he would like bestand most 
probably survive, if his heart was strong. For her service, she demanded a Rankan soldat's worth of 
black krrf, before the act. When he had paid her, and watched her melt it with water over a flame, 
cool it, and bring it to him on the bed, her fingers stirring the viscous liquid, he was glad he hadn't 
argued about her price, or about her practice of always charging one. 

* * * 

Wizard weather blew in off the sea later that night as quickly as one of the Sanctuary whores 
could blow a client a kiss or a pair of Stepsons disperse an unruly crowd. Everyone in the suddenly 
mist-enshrouded streets of the Maze ran for cover; adepts huddled under beds with their best 
warding spells wrapped tighter than blankets around shivering shoulders; east-siders bade their 
jesters perform and their musicians play louder; dogs howled; cats yowled; horses screamed in the 
palace stables and tried to batter their stallboards down. 

Some unlucky ones did not make it to safety before a dry thunder roared and lightning flashed 
and in the streets, the mist began to glitter, thicken, chill. It rolled head-high along byway and alley, 
claws of ice scrabbling at shuttered windows, barred doors. Where it found life, it shredded bodies, 
lacerating limbs, stealing away warmth and souls and leaving only flayed carcasses frozen in the 
streets. 


A pair of Stepsonsmercenary special forces whom the prince's marshal, Tempus, 
commandedwas caught out in the storm, but it could not be said that the weather killed one: the 
team had been investigating uncorroborated reports that a warehouse conveniently situated at a 
juncture of three major sewers was being used by an alchemist to concoct and store incendiaries. 
The surviving partner guessed that his teammate must have lit a torch, despite the cautions of 
research: human wastes, flour, sulphur and more had gone in through those now-nonexistent doors. 
Though the problem the team had been dispatched to investigate was solved by a concussive 
fireball that threw the second Stepson, Nikodemos, through a window into an intersection, singeing 
his beard and brows and eyelashes, the young Sacred Band member relived the circumstances 
leading to his partner's death repeatedly, agonizing over the possibility that he was to blame 
throughout the night, alone in the pair's billet. So consumed was he with grief at the death of his 
mate, he did not even realize that his friend had saved his life: the fireball and ensuing conflagration 
had blown back the mist and made an oven of the wharfside; Wideway was freed from the vicious 
fog for half its length. He had ridden at a devil's pace out of Sanctuary home to the Stepsons' 
barracks, which once had been a slaver's estate and thus had rooms enough for Tempus to allow 
his hard-won mercenaries the luxury of privacy: ten pairs plus thirty single agents comprised the 
team's core groupuntil this evening past 

A pair of Stepsonsmercenary special forces whom the prince's marshal, Tempus, 
commandedwas caught out in the storm, but it could not be said that the weather killed one: the 
team had been investigating uncorroborated reports that a warehouse conveniently situated at a 
juncture of three major sewers was being used by an alchemist to concoct and store incendiaries. 
The surviving partner guessed that his teammate must have lit a torch, despite the cautions of 
research: human wastes, flour, sulphur and more had gone in through those now-nonexistent doors. 
Though the problem the team had been dispatched to investigate was solved by a concussive 
fireball that threw the second Stepson, Nikodemos, through a window into an intersection, singeing 
his beard and brows and eyelashes, the young Sacred Band member relived the circumstances 
leading to his partner's death repeatedly, agonizing over the possibility that he was to blame 
throughout the night, alone in the pair's billet. So consumed was he with grief at the death of his 
mate, he did not even realize that his friend had saved his life: the fireball and ensuing conflagration 
had blown back the mist and made an oven of the wharfside; Wideway was freed from the vicious 
fog for half its length. He had ridden at a devil's pace out of Sanctuary home to the Stepsons' 
barracks, which once had been a slaver's estate and thus had rooms enough for Tempus to allow 
his hard-won mercenaries the luxury of privacy: ten pairs plus thirty single agents comprised the 
team's core groupuntil this evening past 

Thus he did not see Tempus approaching with the first light of day haloing his just-bathed form 
as if he were some god's own avatar, which at timesdespite his better judgmenthis curse, and 
his battle with it, forced him to become. The tall, autumnal figure stooped and peered in the 
window, sun gilding his yarrow-honey hair and his vast bronze limbs where they were free of his 
army-issue woolen chiton. He wore no arms or armor, no cloak or shoes; furrows deepened on his 
brow, and a sere frown tightened his willful mouth. Sometimes, the expression in his long, slitted 
eyes grew readable: this was such a time. The pain he was about to face was a pain he had known 
too well, too often. It brought to features not brutal enough by half for their history or profession the 
slight, defensive smile which would empty out his eyes. When he could, he knocked. Hearing no 
reply, he called softly, "Niko?" And again 

Having let himself in, he waited for the Stepson, who looked younger than the quarter-century 
he claimed, to raise his head. He met a gaze as blank as his own and bared his teeth. 

The youth nodded slowly, made to rise, sank back when Tempus motioned "stay" and joined 
him on his woodframed cot in blessed shadow. Both sat then, silent, as day filled up the room, 
stealing away their hiding place. Elbows on knees, Niko thanked him for coming. Tempus suggested 
that under the circumstances a bier could still be made, and funerary games would not be out of 
order. When he got no response, the mercenary's commander sighed rattlingly and allowed that he 
himself would be honored to perform the rites. He knew how the Sacred Banders who had 
adopted the war name "Stepsons" revered him. He didn't condone or encourage it, but since they 
had given him their love and were probably doomed to the man for iteven as their original leader, 
Stepson, called Abarsis, had been doomedTempus felt responsible for them. His instructions and 
his curse had sent the gelded warrior-priest Abarsis to his death, and such fighters as these could 
not offer loyalty to a lesser man, to a pompous prince or an abstract cause. Sacred Bands were the 
mercenaries' elite; this one's history under the Slaughter Priest's command was nearly mythical; 
Abarsis had brought his men to Tempus before committing suicide in a most honorable fashion, 
leaving them as his parting giftand as his way of ensuring that Tempus could not just walk away 
from the god Vashanka's service: Abarsis had been Vashanka's priest. 


Of all the mercenaries Rankan money had enabled Tempus to gather for Prince/Governor 
Kadakithis, this young recruit was the most singular. There was something remarkable about the 
finely made slate-haired fighter with his quiet hazel eyes and his understated manner, something that 
made it seem perfectly reasonable that this self-effacing youngster with his clean long limbs and his 
quick canny smile had been the right-side partner of a Syrese legend twice his age for nine years. 
Tempus would rather have been doing anything else than trying to give comfort to the bereaved 
Stepson Nikodemos. Choosing a language appropriate to philosophy and grief (for Niko was fluent 
in six tongues, ancient and modern), he asked the youth what was in his heart. 

Of all the mercenaries Rankan money had enabled Tempus to gather for Prince/Governor 
Kadakithis, this young recruit was the most singular. There was something remarkable about the 
finely made slate-haired fighter with his quiet hazel eyes and his understated manner, something that 
made it seem perfectly reasonable that this self-effacing youngster with his clean long limbs and his 
quick canny smile had been the right-side partner of a Syrese legend twice his age for nine years. 
Tempus would rather have been doing anything else than trying to give comfort to the bereaved 
Stepson Nikodemos. Choosing a language appropriate to philosophy and grief (for Niko was fluent 
in six tongues, ancient and modern), he asked the youth what was in his heart. 

"Gloom," Tempus agreed in the same linguistic pastiche, yet ventured: "You'll survive it. We all 
do." 

"Oh, Riddler I know You did, Abarsis didtwice," he took a shivering breath; "but it's not 
easy. I feel so naked. He was always on my left, if you understand mewhere you are now." 

"Consider me here for the duration, then, Niko." Niko raised too-bright eyes, slowly shaking his 
head. "In our spirits' place of comfort, where trees and men and life are one, he is still there. How 
can I rest, when my rest-place holds his ghost? There is no moat left for me do you know the 
word?" 

Tempus did: balance, equilibrium, the tendency of things to make a pattern, and that pattern to 
be discernible, and therefore revivifying. He thought for a moment, gravelynot about Niko's 
problem, but about a youthful mercenary who spoke offhandedly of adept's refreshments and 
archmagical meditations, who routinely transported his spirit into a mystical realm and was 
accustomed to meeting another spirit there. He said at last: "I don't read it ill that your friend waits 
there. Why is it bad, unless you make it so? Moat, if you have had it, you will find again. With him, 
you are bound in spirit, not just in flesh. He would be hurt to hurt you, and to see you afraid of what 
once you loved. His spirit will depart your place of relaxation when we put it formally to rest. Yet 
you must make a better peace with him and surmount your fear. It's well to have a friendly soul 
waiting at the gate when your time comes around. Surely you love him still?" 

That broke the young Stepson, and Tempus left him curled up on his bed so that his sobs need 
not be silent and he could heal upon his own. 

Outside, leaning against the doorjamb, the planked door carefully closed, Tempus put his fingers 
to the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. He had surprised himself as well as the boy, offering 
Niko such far-reaching support. He wasn't sure he dared to mean it, but he had said it. Niko's team 
had functioned as the Stepsons' ad hoc liaisons, coordinating (but more usually arbitrating disputes 
among) the mercenaries and the Hell Hounds (the Rankan Imperial Elite Guards), the Ilsig regular 
army and the militia Tempus was trying to covertly form out of some carefully-chosen street urchins, 
slit purses, and sleevesthe real rulers of this overblown slum and the only people who ever knew 
what was going on in Sanctuary, a town which just might become a strategic staging area if war did 
come down from the north. As liaisons, both teammates had come to him often for advice. Part of 
Niko's workload had been the making of an adequate swordsman out of a certain Ilsig thief named 
Hanse, to whom Tempus had owed a debt he did not care to discharge personally. But the young 
backstreeter, emboldened by his easy early successes, had proved increasingly irascible and 
contentious when Nikoaware that Tempus was indebted to Hanse and that Kadakithis 
inexplicably favored the thiefendeavored to lead him far beyond slash-and-thrust infantry tactics 
into the subtleties of Niko's own expertise: cavalry strategies, guerilla tactics, western fighting forms 
that dispensed with weaponry by accenting surprise, precision, and meditation-honed instinct. 
Though the thief recognized the value of what the Stepson offered, his pride made him sneer: he 


couldn't admit his need to know, would not chance being found wanting, and hid his fear of failure 
behind anger. After three months of justifying the value of methods and mechanics the Stepson felt 
to be self-explanatory (black stomach blood, bright lung blood, or pink foam from the ears indicates 
a mortal strike; yarrow root shaved into a wound quells its pain; ginseng, chewed, renews stamina; 
mandrake in an enemy's stewpot incapacitates a company, monkshood decimates one; green or 
moldy hay downs every horse on your opponents' line; cheese wire, the right handhold, or a knife 
from behind obviates the need for passwords, protracted dissembling, or forged papers) Niko had 
turned to Tempus for a decision as to whether instruction must continue: Shadowspawn, called 
Hanse, was a natural bladesman, as good as any man wishing to wield a sword for a living needed 
to beon the ground, Niko had said. As far as horsemanship, he had added almost sadly, niceties 
could not be taught to a cocky novice who spent more time arguing that he'd never need to master 
them than practicing what he was taught. Similarly, so far as tradecraft went, Hanse's fear of being 
labelled a Stepson-in-training or an apprentice Sacred Bander prevented him from fraternizing with 
the squadron during the long evenings when shoptalk and exploits flowed freely, and every man 
found much to learn. Niko had shrugged, spreading his hands to indicate an end to his report. 
Throughout it (the longest speech Tempus had ever heard the Stepson make), Tempus could not fail 
to mark the disgust so carefully masked, the frustration and the unwillingness to admit defeat which 
had hidden in Nikodemos' lowered eyes and blank face. Tempus' decision to pronounce the student 
Shadowspawn graduated, gift him with a horse, and go on to new business had elicited a subtle 
inclination of headan agreement, nothing lessfrom the youthful and eerily composed junior 
mercenary. Since then, he hadn't seen him. And, upon seeing him, he had not asked any of the 
things he had gone there to find out: not one question as to the exact circumstances of his partner's 
death, or the nature of the mist which had ravaged the Maze, had passed his lips. Tempus blew out 
a noisy breath, grunted, then pushed off from where he leaned against the whitewashed barracks 
wall. He would go out to see what headway the band had made with the bier and the games, set for 
sundown behind the walled estate. He did not need to question the boy further, only to listen to his 
own heart. 

couldn't admit his need to know, would not chance being found wanting, and hid his fear of failure 
behind anger. After three months of justifying the value of methods and mechanics the Stepson felt 
to be self-explanatory (black stomach blood, bright lung blood, or pink foam from the ears indicates 
a mortal strike; yarrow root shaved into a wound quells its pain; ginseng, chewed, renews stamina; 
mandrake in an enemy's stewpot incapacitates a company, monkshood decimates one; green or 
moldy hay downs every horse on your opponents' line; cheese wire, the right handhold, or a knife 
from behind obviates the need for passwords, protracted dissembling, or forged papers) Niko had 
turned to Tempus for a decision as to whether instruction must continue: Shadowspawn, called 
Hanse, was a natural bladesman, as good as any man wishing to wield a sword for a living needed 
to beon the ground, Niko had said. As far as horsemanship, he had added almost sadly, niceties 
could not be taught to a cocky novice who spent more time arguing that he'd never need to master 
them than practicing what he was taught. Similarly, so far as tradecraft went, Hanse's fear of being 
labelled a Stepson-in-training or an apprentice Sacred Bander prevented him from fraternizing with 
the squadron during the long evenings when shoptalk and exploits flowed freely, and every man 
found much to learn. Niko had shrugged, spreading his hands to indicate an end to his report. 
Throughout it (the longest speech Tempus had ever heard the Stepson make), Tempus could not fail 
to mark the disgust so carefully masked, the frustration and the unwillingness to admit defeat which 
had hidden in Nikodemos' lowered eyes and blank face. Tempus' decision to pronounce the student 
Shadowspawn graduated, gift him with a horse, and go on to new business had elicited a subtle 
inclination of headan agreement, nothing lessfrom the youthful and eerily composed junior 
mercenary. Since then, he hadn't seen him. And, upon seeing him, he had not asked any of the 
things he had gone there to find out: not one question as to the exact circumstances of his partner's 
death, or the nature of the mist which had ravaged the Maze, had passed his lips. Tempus blew out 
a noisy breath, grunted, then pushed off from where he leaned against the whitewashed barracks 
wall. He would go out to see what headway the band had made with the bier and the games, set for 
sundown behind the walled estate. He did not need to question the boy further, only to listen to his 
own heart. 

Equally reticent was Tempus when Kadakithis, wringing his lacquer-nailed hands, told him of the 
First Hazard's unique demise, and wondered with dismal sarcasm if the adepts would again try to 
blame the fall of one of their number on Tempus' alleged sister (here he glanced sidelong up at 
Tempus from under his pale Imperial curls), the escaped mage-killer who, he was beginning to 
think, was a figment of sorcerers' nightmares: When they'd had this "person" in the pits, awaiting trial 
and sentence, no two witnesses could agree on the description of the woman they saw; when she 
had escaped, no one saw her go. It might be that the adepts were purging their Order again, and 
didn't want anyone to know, didn't Tempus agree? In the face of Kadakithis' carefully thought-out 
policy statement, meant to protect the prince from involvement and the soldier from implication, 


Tempus refrained from comment. 

Tempus refrained from comment. 

There were compensations, if such they could be called. He lived interminably, though he could 
not sleep at all; he was immune to simple, nasty war-magics; he had a sword which cut through 
spells like cheese and glowed when the god took an interest. In battle he was more than twice as 
fast as a mortal manwhile they moved so slowly he could do as he willed upon a crowded field 
which was a melee to all but him and even extend his hyper speed to his mount, if the horse was of 
a certain strain and tough constitution. And wounds he took healed quicklyinstantly if the god 
loved him that day, more slowly if they had been quarreling. Only oncewhen he and his god had 
had a serious falling-out over whether or not to rape his sisterhad Vashanka truly deserted him. 
But even then, as if his body were simply accustomed to doing it, his regenerative abilities 
remainedmuch slowed, very painful, but there. 

For these reasons, and many more, he had a mystique, but no charisma. Only among 
mercenaries could he look into eyes free from the glint of fear. He stayed much among his own, 
these days in Sanctuary. Abarsis' death had struck home harder than he cared to admit. It seemed, 
sometimes, that one more soul laying down its life for him and one more burden laid upon him 
would surpass his capacity and he would crack apart into the dessicated dust he doubtless was. 

Crossing the whitewashed court, passing the stables, his Trs horses stuck steel-gray muzzles 
over their half-doors and whickered. He stopped and stroked them, speaking soft words of 
comradeship and endearment, before he left to let himself out the back gate to the training ground, a 
natural amphitheatre between hillocks where the Stepsons drilled the few furtive Ilsigs wishing to 
qualify for the militia-reserves Kadakithis was funding. 

He was thinking, as he closed the gate behind him and squinted out over the arena (counting 
heads and fitting names to them where men sat perched atop the fence or lounged against it or 
raked sand or counted off paces for sunset's funerary games), that it was a good thing no one had 
been able to determine the cause of the ranking Hazard's death. He would have to do something 
about his sister Cime, and soonsomething substantive. He'd given her the latitude befitting a 
probable sibling and childhood passion, and she had exceeded his forbearance. He'd been willing to 
overlook the fact that he had been paying her debts with his soul ever since an archmage had cursed 
him on her account, but he was not willing to ignore the fact that she refused to abstain from taking 
down magicians. It might be her right, in general, to slay sorcerers, but it was not her right to do it 
here, where he was pinned tight between law and morality as it was. The whole conundrum of how 
he might successfully deal with Cime was something he did not want to contemplate. So he did not, 
just then, only walked, cold brown grass between his toes, to the near side of the chest-high 


wooden fence behind which, on happier days, his men schooled Ilsigs and each other. Today they 
were making a bier there, dragging dry branches from the brake beyond Vashanka's altar, a pile of 
stones topping a rise due east, where the charioteers worked their teams. 

wooden fence behind which, on happier days, his men schooled Ilsigs and each other. Today they 
were making a bier there, dragging dry branches from the brake beyond Vashanka's altar, a pile of 
stones topping a rise due east, where the charioteers worked their teams. 

First, he noticed that two people sauntering casually down the altar's hillock toward him were 
not familiar; and then, that none of his Stepsons were moving: each was stockstill. A cold overswept 
him, like a wind-driven wave, and rolled on toward the barracks. Above, the pale sky clouded 
over; a silky dusk swallowed the day. Black clouds gathered; over Vashanka's altar two luminous, 
red moons appeared high up in the inky air, as if some huge night-cat lurked on a lofty perch. 
Watching the pair approaching (through unmoving men who didn't even know they stood now in 
darkness), swathed in a pale nimbus which illuminated their path as the witch-cold had heralded 
their coming, Tempus muttered under his breath. His hand went to his hip, where no weapon lay, 
but only a knotted cord. Studying the strangers without looking at them straight-on, leaning back, 
his arms outstretched along the fencetop, he waited. 

The red lights glowing above Vashanka's altar winked out. The ground shuddered; the altar 
stones tumbled to the ground. Wonderful, he thought. Just great. He let his eyes slide over his 
men, asleep between blinks, and wondered how far the spell extended, whether they were 
ensorceled in their bunks, or in the mess, or on their horses as they made their rounds in the country 
or the town. 

Well, Vashanka? he tested. It's your altar they took down. But the god was silent. 

Besides the two coming at measured pace across the ground rutted with chariot tracks, nothing 
moved. No bird cried or insect chittered, no Stepson so much as snored. The companion of the 
imposing man in the thick, fur mantle had him by the elbow. Who was helping whom, Tempus could 
not at first determine. He tried to think where he had seen that austere facesoul-shriveling eyes so 
sad, bones so fine and yet full of vitality beneath the black, silver-starred hairand then blew out a 
sibilant breath when he realized what power approached over the rutted, Sanctuary ground. The 
companion, whose lithe musculature and bare, tanned skin were counterpointed by an enameled 
tunic of scale-armor and soft low boots, was either a female or the prettiest eunuch Tempus had 
ever seenwhichever, she/he was trouble, coming in from some nonphysical realm on the arm of 
the entelechy of a shadow lord, master of the once-in-a-while archipelago that bore his name: 
Akelon, lord of dreams. 

When they reached him, Tempus nodded carefully and said, very quietly in a noncommittal way 
that almost passed for deference, "Salutations, Ash. What brings you into so poor a realm?" 

Akelon's proud lips parted; the skin around them was too pale. It was a woman who held his 


arm; her health made him seem the more pallid, but when he spoke, his words were ringing basso 
profundo: "Life to you, Riddler. What are you called here?" 

arm; her health made him seem the more pallid, but when he spoke, his words were ringing basso 
profundo: "Life to you, Riddler. What are you called here?" 

Around his temples, stars of silver floated, stirred by a breeze. His colorless eyes grew darker, 
draining the angry clouds from the sky: "You have not answered me." 

"Nor you. me." 

The woman looked in disbelief upon Tempus. She opened her lips, but Akelon touched them 
with a gloved hand. From the gauntlet's cuff a single drop of blood ran down his left arm to drip 
upon the sand. He looked at it somberly, then up at Tempus. "I seek your sister, what else? I will 
not harm her." 

"But will you cause her to harm herself?" 

The shadow lord whom Tempus had called Ash, so familiarly, rubbed the bloody trail from his 
elbow back up to his wrist. "Surely you do not think you can protect her from me? Have I not 
accomplished even this? Am I not real?" He held his gloved hands out, turned them over, let them 
flap abruptly down against his thighs. Niko, who had been roused from deep meditation in the 
barracks by the cold which had spread sleep over the waking, skidded to a halt and peered around 
the curve of the fence, his teeth gritted hard to stay their chatter. 

"No." Tempus had replied to Akelon's first question with that sensitive little smile which meant 
he was considering commencing some incredible slaughter; "Yes" to his second; "Yes, indeed" to 
the third. 

"And would I be here," the dream lord continued, "in so ignominious a state if not for the havoc 
she has wrought?" 

"I don't know what havoc she's wrought that could have touched you out there. But I take it that 
last night's deadly mist was your harbinger. Why come to me. Ash? I'm not involved with her in any 
way." 

"You connived to release her from imprisonment, Tempus it is Tempus, so the dreams of the 
Sanctuarites tell me. And they tell me other things, too. I am here, sleepless one, to warn you: 
though I cannot reach you through dreams, have no doubt: I can reach you. AH of these, you 
consider yours" He waved his hand to encompass the still men, frozen unknowing upon the field. 
"They are mine now. I can claim them any time." 

"What do you want, Ash?" 

"I want you to refrain from interfering with me while I am here. I will see her, and settle a score 
with her, and if you are circumspect, when I leave, your vicious little band of cutthroats will be 
returned to you, unharmed, uncomprehending." 

"All that, to make sure of me? I don't respond well to flattery. You will force me to a gesture by 
trying to prevent one. I don't care what you do about Cimewhatever you do, you will be doing 
me a favor. Release my people, and go about your quest." 

"I cannot trust you not to interfere. By noon I shall be installed as temporary First Hazard of 
your local mage-guild" 

"Slumming? It's hardly your style." 

"Style?" he thundered so that his companion shuddered and Niko started, dislodging a stone 
which clicked, rolled, then lay still. "Style! She came unto me with her evil and destroyed my 


peace." His other hand cradled his wrist. "I was lucky to receive a reprieve from damnation. I have 
only a limited dispensation: either I force her to renege on murdering me, or make her finish the job. 
And you of all men know what awaits a contractee such as myself when existence is over. What 
would you do in my place?" 

peace." His other hand cradled his wrist. "I was lucky to receive a reprieve from damnation. I have 
only a limited dispensation: either I force her to renege on murdering me, or make her finish the job. 
And you of all men know what awaits a contractee such as myself when existence is over. What 
would you do in my place?" 

"Release my people, if you want her, and we will think about how to satisfy you over breakfast. 
From the look of you, you could use something warm to drink. You do drink, don't you? With the 
form come the functions, surely even here." 

Akelon sighed feelingly; his shoulders slumped. "Yes, indeed, the entire package is mine to tend 
and lumber about in, some little while longer until after the mageguild's fte this evening, at the 
very least I am surprised, not to mention pleased, that you display some disposition to 
compromise. It is for everyone's benefit. This is Jihan." He inclined his head toward his companion. 
"Greet our host." 

"It's my pleasure to wish that things go exceedingly well with you," the woman said, and Niko 
saw Tempus shiver, a subtle thing that went over him from head to toeand almost bolted out to 
help, thinking some additional, debilitating spell was being cast. He wasn't fooled by those polite 
exchanges: bodies and timbres had been speaking more plainly of respectful opposition and 
cautious hostility. Distressed and overbalanced from long crouching without daring to lean or sit, he 
fell forward, catching himself too late to avoid making noise. 

Niko heard Tempus remonstrate, "Let him be, Akelon!" and felt a sudden ennui, his eyelids 
closing, a drift toward sleep he foughtthen heard the dream lord reply: "I will take this one as my 
hostage, and leave Jihan with you, a fair trade. Then I will release these others, who remember 
nothingfor the interim. When I am done here, if you have behaved well, you may have them back 
permanently, free and unencumbered. We will see how good your faith can be said to be." 

Niko realized he could still hear, still see, still move. 

"Come here, Nikodemos," Tempus summoned him. 

He obeyed. His commander's mien implored Niko to take all this in his stride, as his voice sent 
him to see to breakfast for three. He was about to object that only by the accident of meditation 
had he been untouched by the spellwhich sought out waking minds and could not find his in his 
rest-place, and thus the cook and all the menials must be spellbound, still when men began to stir 
and finish sentences begun before Akelon's arrival, and Tempus waved him imperatively on his 
way. He left on the double, ignoring the stares of those just coming out of limbo, whistling to cover 
the wheeze of his fear. 

* * * 

So it was that the Sacred Bander Nikodemos accompanied Akelon into Sanctuary on the 
young Stepson's two best horses, his ears ringing with what he had heard and his eyes aching from 
what he had seen and his heart clandestinely taking cautious beats in a constricted chest. 

Over breakfast, Akelon had remarked to Tempus that it must be hell for one of his 
temperament to languish under curse and god. "I've gotten used to it," "I could grant you mortality, 
so small a thing is still within my power." "I'll limp along as I am, thanks, Ash. If my curse denys me 
love, it gives me freedom." "It would be good for you to have an ally." "Not one who will unleash a 


killing mist merely to make an entrance," Tempus had rejoined, his fingers steepled before him. 
"Sorcery is yet beneath your contempt? You are hardly non-aligned in the conflict brewing." "I have 
my philosophy." "Oh? And what is that?" "A single axiom, these days, is sufficient to my needs." 
"Which is?" "'Grab reality by the balls and squeeze."" "We will see how well it serves you, when you 
stand without your god." "Are you still afraid of me, Ash? I have never given you cause, never vied 
with you for your place." "Who do you think to impress, Riddler? The boy? Your potential, and 
dangerous proclivities, speak for themselves. I will grant no further concessions" 

killing mist merely to make an entrance," Tempus had rejoined, his fingers steepled before him. 
"Sorcery is yet beneath your contempt? You are hardly non-aligned in the conflict brewing." "I have 
my philosophy." "Oh? And what is that?" "A single axiom, these days, is sufficient to my needs." 
"Which is?" "'Grab reality by the balls and squeeze."" "We will see how well it serves you, when you 
stand without your god." "Are you still afraid of me, Ash? I have never given you cause, never vied 
with you for your place." "Who do you think to impress, Riddler? The boy? Your potential, and 
dangerous proclivities, speak for themselves. I will grant no further concessions" 

And he had his orders, which, when he'd received them, he had despaired of successfully 
carrying out. When Akelon had been absorbed in making his farewells to the woman whose 
fighting stature and muscle tone were so extraordinary, Tempus bade Niko warn certain parties to 
spread the word that a curfew must be kept, and some others not to attend the mageguild's fte this 
evening, and lastly find a way to go alone to the Vulgar Unicorn, tavern of consummate ill-repute in 
this scabrous town, and perform a detailed series of actions there. 

Niko had never been to the Vulgar Unicorn, though he'd been by it many times during his tours 
in the Maze. The eastside taverns like the Alekeep at the juncture of Promise Park and Governor's 
Walk, and the Golden Oasis, outside the Maze, were more to his liking, and he stopped at both to 
fortify himself for a sortie into Ilsig filth and Ilsig poverty. At the Alekeep, he managed to warn the 
father of a girl he knew to keep his family home this evening lest the killing mist diminish his house 
should it come again; at the Oasis, he found a Hell Hound and the Ilsig captain Walegrin gaming 
intently over a white-bladed knife (a fine prize if it were the "hard steel" the blond-braided captain 
claimed it was, a metal only fabled to exist), and so had gotten his message off to both the palace 
and the garrison in good order. 

Yet in the Maze, it seemed that his luck deserted him as precipitately as his sense of direction 
had fled- It should be easy to find the Serpentinejust head south by southwest unless the 
entelechy Akelon had hexed him! He rode tight in his saddle under a soapy, scum-covered sky 
gone noncommittal, its sun nowhere to be seen, doubling back from Wideway and the gutted 
wharfside warehouses where serendipity had taken his partner's life as suddenly as their charred 
remains loomed before him out of a pearly fog so thick he could barely see his horse's ears twitch. 
Rolling in off the water, it was rank and fetid and his fingers slipped on his weeping reins. The chill it 
brought was numbing, and lest it penetrate to his very soul, he fled into a light meditation, clearing 
his mind and letting his body roll with his mount's gait while its hoofbeats and his own breathing 
grew loud and that mixed cadence lulled him. 

In his expanded awareness, he could sense the folk behind their doors, just wisps of passion and 
subterfuge leaking out beyond the featureless mudbrick facades from inner courts and wizened 
hearts. When glances rested on him, he knew it, feeling the tightening of focus and disturbance of 
auras like roused bees or whispered insults. When his horse stopped with a disapproving snort at an 
intersection, he had been sensing a steady attention on him, a presence pacing him which knew him 
better than the occasional street-denizen who turned watchful at the sight of a mercenary riding 
through the Maze, or the whores half-hidden in doorways with their 
predatory/cautious/disappointed pinwheels of assessment and dismissal. Still thoroughly disoriented, 
he chose the leftward fork at random, as much to see whether the familiar pattern stalking him 
would follow along as in hopes that some landmark would pop up out of the fog to guide himhe 


didn't know the Maze as well as he should, and his meditation-sensitized peripheral perception 
could tell him only how close the nearest walls were and a bit about who lurked behind them: he 
was no adept, only a western-trained fighter. But, being one, he. had shaken his fear and his 
foreboding, and waited to see if Shadowspawn, called Hanse, would announce himself: should 
Niko hail the thief prematurely, Hanse would almost certainly melt back into the alleys he 
commanded rather than own that Niko had perceived himself shadowedand leave him lost 
among the hovels and the damned. 

didn't know the Maze as well as he should, and his meditation-sensitized peripheral perception 
could tell him only how close the nearest walls were and a bit about who lurked behind them: he 
was no adept, only a western-trained fighter. But, being one, he. had shaken his fear and his 
foreboding, and waited to see if Shadowspawn, called Hanse, would announce himself: should 
Niko hail the thief prematurely, Hanse would almost certainly melt back into the alleys he 
commanded rather than own that Niko had perceived himself shadowedand leave him lost 
among the hovels and the damned. 

"Psst! Stealth!" Hanse called him by his war name, and dropped, soundless as a phantom, from 
a shuttered balcony into his path. Startled, Niko's horse scrabbled backward, hind hooves kicking 
over crates and stanchions so that a row ensued with the stall's enraged proprietor. When that was 
done, the dark slumhawk still waited, eyes glittering with unsaid words sharper than any of the 
secreted blades he wore, a triumphant smile fierce as his scarlet sash fading to his more customary 
street-hauteur as he turned figs in his fingers, pronounced them unfit for human consumption, and 
eased Niko's way. 

"I was out there this morning," Niko heard, bent down over his horse's left hind hoof, checking 
for splinters caught in its shoe; "heard your team lost a member, but not who. Pissass weird 
weather, these days. You know something I should know?" "Possibly." Niko, putting down the 
hoof, brushed dust from his thighs and stood up. "Once when I was wandering around the 
backstreets of a coastal citynever mind which one with an arrow in my gut and afraid to seek a 
surgeon's help there was weather like this. A man who took me in told me to stay off the streets at 
night until the weather'd been clear a full daysomething to do with dead adepts and souls to pay 
their way out of purgatory. Tell your friends, if you've got any. And do me a favor, fair exchange?" 
He gathered up his reins and took a handful of mane, about to swing up on his horse, and thus he 
saw Hanse's fingers flicker: state it. So he did, admitting that he was lost, quite baldly, and asking 
the thief to guide him on his way. 

When they had walked far enough that Shadowspawn's laughter no longer echoed, the thief 
said, "What's wrong? Like I said, I was out at the barracks. I've never seen him scared of anything, 
but he's scared of that girl he's got in his room. And he's meaner than normaltold me I couldn't 
stable my horse out there, and not to come around" Shadowspawn broke off, having said what 
he did not want to say, and kicked a melon in their path, which burst open, showing the teeming 
maggots within. 

"Maybe he'd like to keep you out of troubles that aren't any of your business. Or maybe he 
estimates his debt to you is paid in fullyou can't keep coming around when it suits you and still be 
badmouthing us like any other Ilsig" 

A spurt of profanity contained some cogent directions to the Vulgar Unicorn, and some other 
suggestions impossible to follow. Niko didn't look up to see Hanse go. If he failed to take the 
warning to heart, then hurt feelings would keep him away from Niko and his commander for a 
while. It was enough. 

Directions or no, it took him longer than it should have to find his way. Finally, when he was 
eyeing the sky doubtfully, trying to estimate the lateness of the hour, he spied the Unicorn's 
autoerotic sign creaking in the moist, stinking breeze blowing in off the harbor. Discounting Hanse, 
since Niko had entered the close and ramshackle despair of the shantytown he had seen not one 
friendly face. If he'd been jeered at once, he'd been cursed a score of times, aloud and with spit and 


glare and handsign, and he had had more than his fill of Sanctuary's infamous slum. 

glare and handsign, and he had had more than his fill of Sanctuary's infamous slum. 

Niko stared at him, feeling anger chase the disquiet from his limbs. "I know you Ilsigs don't like 
us," he said quietly, "but I haven't time now to charm you into a change of mind. Where's 
One-Thumb, barkeep? I have a message for him that cannot wait." 

"Right here," smirked the aproned mountain, tossing his rag onto the barsink's Chipped pottery 
rim. "What is it, sonny?" 

"He wants you to take me to the ladyyou know the one." Actually, Tempus had instructed 
Niko to tell One-Thumb about Akelon's intention to confront Cime, and wait for word as to what 
the woman wanted Tempus to do. But he was resentful, and he was late. "I have to be at the 
mageguild by sundown. Let's move." 

"You've got the wrong One-Thumb, and the wrong idea. Who's this 'he'?" 

"Bartender, I leave it on your conscience" He pushed his mug away and took a step back 
from the bar, then realized he couldn't leave without discharging his duty, and reached out to pick it 
up again. 

The big bartender's thumbless hand curled around his wrist and jerked him against the bar. He 
prayed for patience. "And he didn't tell you not to come in here, bold as brass tassels on a 
witch-bitch whore? He is getting sloppy, or he's forgotten who his friends are. Why didn't you come 
round the back? What do you expect me to do, leave with you in the middle of the day? I" 

"I was lucky I found your pisshole at all, Wriggly. Let me go or you're going to lose the rest of 
those fingers, sure as Lord Storm's anger rocks even this god-ridden garbage heap of a 
peninsula" 

Someone stepped up to the bar and One-Thumb, with a wrench of wrist, went to serve him, 
meanwhile motioning close a girl whose breasts were mottled gray with dirt and pinkish white where 
she had sweated it away, saying to her that Niko was to be taken to the office. 

In it, he watched the man called One-Thumb through a oneway mirror, and fidgeted. Eventually, 
though he saw no reason why it happened, a door he had thought to be a closet's opened behind 
him, and a woman stepped in, clad in Ilsig doeskin leggings. She said, "What word did my brother 
send to me?" He told her, thinking, watching her, that her eyes were gray like Akelon's, and her 
hair was arrestingly black and silver, and that she did not in any way resemble Tempus. When he 
was finished with his story and his warning that she not, under any circumstances, go out this 
eveningnot, upon her life, attend the mageguild fteshe laughed, a sweet tinkle so inappropriate 
his spine chilled and he stiffened. 

"Tell my brother not to be afraid. You mustn't know him well, to take his terror of the adepts so 


seriously." She moved close to him, and he drowned in her stormcloud eyes while her hand went to 
his swordbelt and by it she pulled him close. "Have you money, Stepson? And some time to 
spend?" 

seriously." She moved close to him, and he drowned in her stormcloud eyes while her hand went to 
his swordbelt and by it she pulled him close. "Have you money, Stepson? And some time to 
spend?" 

* * * 

Thinking back over the last ten months, Tempus realized he should have expected something like 
this. Vashanka was weakening steadily: something had removed the god's name from Kadakithis' 
palace dome; the state-cult's temple had proved unbuildable, its ground defiled and its priest a 
defiler; the ritual of the Tenslaying had been interrupted by Cime and her fire, and he and Vashanka 
had begotten a male child upon the First Consort which the god did not seem to want to claim; 
Abarsis had been allowed to throw his life away without regard to the fact that he had been 
Vashanka's premier warrior-priest. Now the field altar his mercenaries had built had been tumbled 
to the ground before his eyes by one of Abarsis' teachers, an entelechy chosen specifically to 
balance the berserker influence of the god. And he, Tempus, was imprisoned in his own quarters by 
a Froth Daughter in an all-too-human body intent on exacting from him recompense for what his 
sister had denied her. 

Glumly he wondered if his god could be undergoing a mid-life crisis, then if he, too, was, since 
Vashanka and he were linked by the Law of Consonance. Certainly, Jinan's proclamation of 
intended rape had taken him aback. He had not been taken aback by anything in years. "Rapist, 
they call you, and with good reason," she had said, reaching up under the scale-armor corselet to 
wriggle out of her loinguard. "We will see how you like it, in receipt of what you're used to giving 
out." He couldn't stop her, or refrain from responding to her. Cime had interrupted Jihan's 
scheduled tryst with Akelon, perhaps aborted it. The body which faced him had been chosen for a 
woman's retribution. Later she said to him, rubbing the imprint of her scale-armor from his loins with 
a high-veined hand: "Have you never heard of letting the lady win?" 

"No," he replied, genuinely puzzled. "Jihan, are you saying I was unfair?" 

"Only arcane, weighting the scales to your side. Love without feeling, mind-caress, 
spell-excitation I am new to flesh. I hope you are well-chastised and repentant," she giggled, just 
briefly, before his words found her ears: "I warn you, straight-out: those who love me, die of it, and 
those I favor are fated to spurn me." 

"You are an arrogant man. You think I care? I should have struck you more viciously." Her flat 
hand slapped, more than playfully, down upon his belly. "He" she meant Akelon "cannot 
spare me any of his substance. I do this for him, that he not look upon me hungry for a man and 
know shame. You saw his wrist, where she skewered him" 

"I don't fancy a gift from him, convenient or no." He was going to pull her up beside him, where 
he might casually get his hands around her fine, muscular throat. But she sat back and retorted, 
"You think he would suggest this? Or even know of it? I take what I choose from men, and we do 
not discuss it. It is all I can do for him. And you owe me whatever price I care to nameyour own 
sister took from me my husband before ever his lips touched mine. When my father chose me from 
my sisters to be sent to ease Akelon's loneliness, I had a choiceyea or nayand a year to make 
it. I studied him, and felt love enough to come to human flesh to claim it. To become humanyou 
concede that I am, for argument's sake?" 


He did thather spectacular body, sheathed in muscle, taut and sensuous, was too powerful 
and yet too shapely to be mortal, but even so, he did not critique her. 

He did thather spectacular body, sheathed in muscle, taut and sensuous, was too powerful 
and yet too shapely to be mortal, but even so, he did not critique her. 

He objected, and she laughed, "You should see your face." 

"I can imagine. You are a very attractive lady, and you come with impeccable credentials 
from an unimpeachable source. So if you are inexperienced in the ways of the world, brash and 
awkward and ineffective because of that, I suppose I must excuse you. Thus, I shall make 
allowances." His one hand raised, gestured, scooped up her loinguard and tossed it at her. "Get 
dressed, get out of here. Go back to your master, familiar, and tell him I do not any longer pay my 
sister's debts." 

Then, finally, she came at him: "You mistake me. I am not asking you, I am telling you." She 
reached him, crouched down, thighs together, hands on her knees, knees on what had once been 
Jubal the Slaver's bed. "This is a real debt, in lieu of payment for which, my patron and the 
elementals will exact" 

He clipped her exactly behind her right ear, and she fell across him, senseless. 

Other things she had said, earlier in passion, rang in his head: that should he in any way displease 
her, her duty would then be plain: he and Vashanka could both be disciplined by way of the child 
they had together begotten on one of Molin Torchholder's temple dancers. 

He wasn't sure how he felt about that, as he was not sure how he felt about Akelon's offer of 
mortality or Vashanka's cowardice, or the positives and negatives of his sister's self-engendered 
fate. 

He gave the unconscious woman over to his Stepsons with instructions that made the three he 
had hailed grin widely. He couldn't estimate how long they would be able to hold her however 
long they managed it, it had better be long enough. The Stepson who had come from seeking Niko 
in Sanctuary found him, garbed for business, saddling a Trs horse in the stables. 

"Stealth said," the gruff, sloe-eyed commando reported: '"She said stay out of it, no need to 
fear." He's staying with the archmage, or whatever it is. He's going to the mageguild party and 
suggests you try and drop by." A feral grin stole over the mercenary's face. He knew something was 
up. "Need anybody on your right for this, commander?" 

Tempus almost said no, but changed his mind and told the Stepson to get a fresh horse and his 
best panoply and meet him at the mageguild's outer gate. 

* * * 

There was a little mist in the streets by the time Tempus headed his Trs horse across the east 
side toward the mageguildnothing daunting yet, just a fetlock-high steaminess as if the streets 
were cobbled with dry ice. He had had no luck intercepting his sister at Lastel's estate: a servant 
shouted through a grate, over the barking of dogs, that the master had already left for the fte. He'd 
stopped briefly at the mercenaries' hostel before going there, to burn a rag he had had for centuries 
in the common room's hearth: he no longer needed to be reminded not to argue with warlocks, or 
that love, for him, was always a losing game. With his sister's scarf, perhaps the problem of her 
would waft away, changed like the ancient linen to smoke upon the air. 


Before the mageguild's outer wall, an imprudent crowd had gathered to watch the luminaries 
arriving in the ersatz-daylight of its ensorceled grounds. Pink clouds formed a glowing canopy to the 
wall's edgea godly pavilion; elsewhere, it was night. Where dark met light, the Stepson Janni 
waited, one leg crooked over his saddlehorn, rolling a smoke, his best helmet dangling by his knee 
and his full-length dress-mantle draped over his horse's croup, while around his hips the ragged 
crowd thronged and his horse, ears flattened, snapped at Ilsigs who came too near. 

Before the mageguild's outer wall, an imprudent crowd had gathered to watch the luminaries 
arriving in the ersatz-daylight of its ensorceled grounds. Pink clouds formed a glowing canopy to the 
wall's edgea godly pavilion; elsewhere, it was night. Where dark met light, the Stepson Janni 
waited, one leg crooked over his saddlehorn, rolling a smoke, his best helmet dangling by his knee 
and his full-length dress-mantle draped over his horse's croup, while around his hips the ragged 
crowd thronged and his horse, ears flattened, snapped at Ilsigs who came too near. 

He wasn't smiling when the mageguild's ponderous doors enfolded them, and three junior 
functionaries escorted them to the "changing rooms" within the outer wall where they were expected 
to strip and hand over their armaments to the solicitously smirking mages-in-training before donning 
preferred "fte-clothes" (gray silk chitons with summer sandals) the wizards had thoughtfully 
provided. Akelon wasn't taking any chances, Tempus thought but did not say, though Janni 
wondered aloud what use there was in checking their paltry swords and daggers when enchanters 
could not be made to check their spells. 

Inside the mageguild's outer walls, it was summer. In its gardenstransformed from their usual 
dank fetidness by artful conjure into a wonderland of orchids and eucalyptus and willows weeping 
where before moss-hung swamp-giants had held sway over quickmiresTempus saw Kadakithis, 
resolutely imperious in a black robe oversewn with gems into a map of 
Ranke-caught-in-the-web-of-the-world. The prince/governor's pregnant wife, a red gift-gown 
splendid over her child-belly, leaned heavily on his arm. Kittycat's approving glance was laced with 
commiseration: yes, he, too, found it hard to smile here, but both of them knew it prudent to 
observe the forms, especially with wizards 

Tempus nodded and walked away. 

Then he saw her, holding Lastel's hand, to which the prosthetic thumb of his disguise was firmly 
attached. A signal bade Janni await him; he didn't have to look back to know that the Stepson 
obeyed. 

Cime was blond tonight, and golden-eyed, tall in her adept-chosen robe of iridescent green, but 
he saw through the illusion to her familiar self. And she knew it. "You come here without your 
beloved armaments or even the god's amulet? The man I used to know would have pulled rank and 
held on to his weapons." 

"Nothing's going to happen here," he murmured, staring off over her head into the crowd looking 
for Niko; "unless the message I received was in error, and we do have a problem?" 

"We have no problem" glowered Lastel/One-Thumb. 

"One-Thumb, disappear, or I'll have Janni, over there, teach you how to imitate your bar's sign." 
With a reproachful look that Tempus would utter his alias here, the man who did not like to be 
called One-Thumb outside the Maze lumbered off. 

Then he had to look at her. Under the golden-eyed illusion, her char-and-smoke gaze accused 
him, as it had chased him across the centuries and made him content to be accursed and 
constrained from other loves. God, he thought, I will never get through this without error. It was 
the closest he had come to asking Vashanka to help him for ages. In the back of his skull, a distant 
whisper exhorted him to take his sister while he could that bush on his right would be bower 
enough. But more than advice the god could not give: " I have my own troubles, mortal, for 
which you are partly responsible." With the echo of Vashanka"s last word, Tempus knew the god 
was gone. 

"Is Lastel telling the truth, Cime? Are you content to face Akelon's wrath, and your peril, 


alone? Tell me how you came to half-kill a personage of that magnitude, and assure me that you 
can rectify your mistake without my help." 

alone? Tell me how you came to half-kill a personage of that magnitude, and assure me that you 
can rectify your mistake without my help." 

While he watched, Akelon appeared from the crowd to bar her path, a golden coin held out 
before him like a wand or a warding charm. That fast did he have her, too fast for Tempus to get 
between them, simply by the mechanism of invoking her curse: for pay, she must give herself to any 
comer. He watched them flicker out of being with his stomach rolling and an ache in his throat. It 
was some little while before he saw anything external, and then he saw Nikodemos showing off his 
gift-cuirass to Janni. 

The two came up to him wondering why it was, when everyone else's armaments had been 
taken from them, Niko, who'd arrived in shabby duty-gear, had been given better than ever he 
could afford. Tempus drew slowly into his present, noting Molin Torchholder's overgaudy figure 
nearby, and a kohl-eyed lady who might easily be an infiltrator from the Mygdonian Alliance talking 
to Lastel. 

He asked his Stepsons to make her acquaintance: "She might just be smuggling drugs into 
Sanctuary with Lastel's help, but don't arrest her for trifles. If she is a spy, perhaps she will try to 
recruit a Stepson disaffected enough with his lot. Either of youa single agent or half a broken 
paircould fit that description." 

"At the least, we must plumb her body's secrets, Stealth," Janni rumbled to Niko as the two 
strutted her way, looking virile and predatory. 

With a scowl of concern for the Stepson to whom he was bound by ill-considered words, he 
sought out Torchholder, recalling, as he slid with murmured greetings and apologies through 
socialites and Hazard-class adepts, Niko's blank and steady eyes: the boy knew his danger, and 
trusted Tempus, as a Sacred Bander must, to see him through it. No remonstrance or doubt had 
shown in the fighter called Stealth's open countenance, that Tempus would come here against 
Askeion's wishes, and risk a Stepson's life. It was war, the boy's calm said, what they both did and 
what they both knew. Later, perhaps there would be explanationsor not. Tempus knew that 
Niko, should he survive, would never broach the subject. 

"Torchholder, I think you ought to go see to the First Consort's baby," he said as his hand came 
down heavily on the palace-priest's bebaubled shoulder. Torchholder was already pulling on his 
beard, his mouth curled with anger, when he turned. Assessing Tempus' demeanor, his face did a 
dance which ended in a mien of knowing caution. "Ah, yes, I did mean to look in on Seylalha and 
her babe. Thank you for reminding me, Hell Hound." 

"Stay with her," Tempos whispered sotto voce as Molin sought to brush by him, "or get them 


both to a safer place" 

both to a safer place" 

Tempest was just thinking that it was well Fte Week only came once yearly, when above him, 
in the pink, tented clouds, winter gloom began to spread; and beside him, a hand closed upon his 
left arm with a numbingly painful grip: Jinan had arrived. 

* * * 

Akelon of Meridian, entelechy of the seventh sphere, lord of dream and shadow, faced his 
would-be assassin little strengthened. The Hazards of Sanctuary had given what they could of 
power to him, but mortal strength and mortals' magic could not replace what he had lost. His 
compassionate eyes had sunken deep under lined and arching brows; his skin was pallid; his cheeks 
hosted deep hollows like his colossus' where it guarded an unknown sea, so fierce that folk there 
who had never heard of Sanctuary swore that in those stony caverns demons raised their broods. 

It had cost him much to take flesh and make chase. It cost him more to remove Cime to the 
mageguild's innermost sanctum before the disturbance broke out above the celebrants on the lawn. 
But he had done it. 

He said to her, "Your intention, free agent, was not clear. Your resolve was not firm. I am 
neither dead nor alive, because of you. Release me from this torture. I saw in your eyes you did not 
truly wish my demise, nor the madness that must come upon the world entire from the destruction of 
the place of salving dreams. You have lived awhile, now, in a world where dreams cannot solve 
problems, or to be used to chart the future, or to heal or renew. What say you? You can change it, 
bring sanity back among the planes, and love to your aching heart. I will make you lady of Meridian. 
Our quays will once again rise crystal, streets will glitter gold, and my people will finish the 
welcoming paean they were singing when you shattered my heart." As he spoke, he pulled from his 
vestments a kerchief and held it out, unfolded, in his right hand. There on snowy linen glittered the 
shards of the Heart of Akelon, the obsidian talisman which her rods had destroyed when he wore 
it on his wrist. 

She had them out by then, taken down from her hair, and she twirled them, blue-white and 
ominous, in her fingers. 

He did not shrink from her, nor eye her weapons. He met her glance with his, and held, willing 
to take either outcome anything but go on the way he was. 

Then he heard the hardness of her laugh, and prepared himself to face the tithe-collectors who 
held the mortgage on his soul. 

Her aspect of blond youthfulness fell away with her laughter, and she stepped near him, saying, 
"Love, you offer me? You know my curse, do you not?" 

"I can lift it, if you but spend one year with me." 

"You can lift it? Why should I believe you, father of magic? Not even gods must tell the truth, 
and you, I own, are beyond even the constraints of right and wrong which gods obey." 

"Will you not help me, and help yourself? Your beauty will not fade; I can give youth unending, 
and heal your heart, if you but heal mine." His hand, outstretched to her, quivered. His eyes 
sparkled with unshed tears. "Shall you spend eternity as a murderer and a whore, for no reason? 
Take salvation, now it is offered. Take it for us both. Neither of us could claim such a boon from 
eternity again." 

Cime shrugged, and the woman's eyes so much older than the three decades her body showed 
impaled him. "Some kill politicians, some generals, foot soldiers in the field. As for me, I think the 


mages are the problem, twisting times and worlds about like children play with string. And as for 
help, what makes you think either you or I deserve it? How many have you aided, without 
commensurate gain? When old Four-Eyes-Spitting-Fire-And-Four-Mouths-Spitting-Curses came 
after me, no one did anything, not my parents, or our priests or seers. They all just looked at their 
feet, as if the key to my salvation was written in Azehur's sand. But it was not! And oh, did I learn 
from my wizard! More than he thought to teach me, since he crumbled into dust on my account, 
and that is sure." 

mages are the problem, twisting times and worlds about like children play with string. And as for 
help, what makes you think either you or I deserve it? How many have you aided, without 
commensurate gain? When old Four-Eyes-Spitting-Fire-And-Four-Mouths-Spitting-Curses came 
after me, no one did anything, not my parents, or our priests or seers. They all just looked at their 
feet, as if the key to my salvation was written in Azehur's sand. But it was not! And oh, did I learn 
from my wizard! More than he thought to teach me, since he crumbled into dust on my account, 
and that is sure." 

They stared a time longer at each other, and while they saw themselves in one another, Cime 
began to cry, who had not wept in thrice a hundred years. And in time she turned her rods about, 
and butts first, she touched them to the shards of the obsidian he held in a trembling palm. 

When the rods made contact, a blinding flare of blue commenced to shine in his hand, and she 
heard him say, "I will make things right with us," as the room in which they stood began to fade 
away, and she heard a lapping sea and singing children and finger cymbals tinkling while lutes were 
strummed and pipes began to play. 

* * * 

All hell breaking loose could not have caused more pandemonium than Jinan's father's blood-red 
orbs peering down through shredded clouds upon the mageguild's grounds. The fury of the father of 
a jilted bride was met by Vashanka in his full manifestation, so that folk thrown to the ground lay 
silent, staring up at the battle in the sky with their fingers dug deep into chilling, spongy earth. 

Vashanka's two feet were widespread, one upon his temple, due west, one upon the 
mageguild's wall. His lightning bolts rocked the heavens, his golden locks whipped by his 
adversary's black winds. Howls from the foreign Stormbringer's cloudy throat pummeled eardrums; 
people rolled to their stomachs and buried their heads in their arms as the inconceivable cloud 
creature enveloped their god, and blackness reigned. Thunder bellowed; the black cloud pulsed 
spasmodically, lit from within. 

In the tempest, Tempus shouted to Jihan, grabbed her arms in his hands: "Stop this; you can do 
it. Your pride, and his, are not worth so many lives." A lightning bolt struck earth beside his foot, so 
close a blue sparkling aftercharge nuzzled his leg. 

She jerked away, palmed her hair back, stood glaring at him with red flecks in her eyes. She 
shouted something back, her lips curled in a flash of light, but the gods' roaring blotted out her 
words. Then she merely turned her back to him, raised her arms to heaven, and perhaps began to 
pray. 

He had no more time for her; the gods' war was his; he felt the claw-cold blows Stormbringer 
landed, felt Vashanka's substance leeching away. Yet he set off running, dodging cowerers upon the 
ground, adepts and nobles with their cloaks wrapped about their heads, seeking his Stepsons: he 
knew what he must do. 

He did not stop for arms or horses, when he found Niko and Janni, but set off through the raging 
din toward the Avenue of Temples, where the child the man and god had begotten upon the First 
Consort was kept. 

Handsigns got them through until speech was useful, when they had run west through the lawns 
and alleys, coming to Vashanka's temple grounds from the back. Inside the shrine's chancery, it was 
quieter, shielded from the sky that heaved with light and dark. 

Niko shared his weapons, those Akelon had given him: a dirk to Tempus, the sword to Janni. 
"But you have nothing left," Janni protested in the urgent undertone they were all employing in the 


shadowed corridors of their embattled god's earthly home. "I have this," Niko replied, and tapped 
his armored chest. 

shadowed corridors of their embattled god's earthly home. "I have this," Niko replied, and tapped 
his armored chest. 

They smelled sorcery before they saw the sick green light or felt the curdling cold. Outside the 
door under which wizard-sign leaked like sulphur from a yellow spring, Janni muttered blackly. 
Niko's lips were drawn back in a grin: "After you, commander?" 

Tempus wrenched the doors apart, once Janni had cut the leather strap where it had been 
drawn within to secure the latch, and beheld Molin Torchholder in the midst of witchfire, wrestling 
with more than Tempus would have thought he could handle, and holding his own. 

On the floor in the corner a honey-haired northern dancer hugged a man-child to her breast, her 
mouth an "ooh" of relief, as if now that Tempus was here, she was surely saved. 

He took time to grimace politely at the girl, who insisted on mistaking him for his god...his senses 
were speeding much faster than even the green, stinking whirlwind in the middle of the room. He 
wasn't so sure that anything was salvageable, here, or even if he cared if girl or priest or child or 
town or god were to be saved. But then he looked behind him, and saw his Stepsons, Niko 
on the left and Janni with sword drawn, both ready to advance on hell itself, would he but bid them, 
and he raised a hand and led them into the lightfight, eyes squinted nearly shut and all his body 
tingling as his preternatural abilities came into play. 

Molin's ouster was uppermost in his mind; he picked the glareblind priest up bodily and threw 
him, wrenching the god's golden icon from his frozen fist. He heard a grunt, a snapping-in of breath, 
behind, but did not look around to see reality fade away. He was fighting by himself, now, in a 
higher, colder place full of day held at bay and Vashanka's potent breath in his right ear. "It is well 
you have come, manchild; I can use your help this day." The left is the place of attack in team 
battle; a shield-holding line drifts right, each trying to protect his open side. He had Vashanka on his 
right, to support him, and a shield, full-length and awful, came to be upon his own left arm. The thing 
he fought here, the Stormbringer's shape, was part cat, part manlike, and its sword cut as hard as 
an avalanche. Its claws chilled his breath away. Behind, black and gray was split with sunrise 
colors, Vashanka's blazon snapping on a flag, of sky. He thrust at the clouds and was parried with 
cold that ran up his sword and seared the skin of his palm so that his sweat froze to ice and layers 
of his flesh bonded to a sharkskin hilt That gave him pause, for it was his own sword, come from 
wherever the mages secreted it, which moved in his hand. Pink glowed that blade, as always when 
his god sanctified His servant's labor. His right was untenanted, suddenly, but Vashanka's strength 
was in him, and it must be enough. 

He fought it unto exhaustion, he fought it to a draw. The adversaries stood in clouds, 
typhoon-breaths rasping, both seeking strength to fight on. And then he had to say it: "Let this slight 
go, Stormbringer. Vengeance is disappointing, always. You soil yourself, having to care. Let her 
stay where she is, Weather-Gods' Father; a mortal sojourn will do her good. The parent is not 
responsible for the errors of the child. Nor the child for the parent." And deliberately, he put down 
the shield the god had given him and peeled the sticky swordhilt from a skinless palm, laying his 
weapon atop the shield. "Or surmount me, and have done with it. I will not die of exhaustion for a 
god too craven to fight by my side. And I will not stand aside and let you have the babe. You see, it 
is me you must punish, not my god. I led Akelon to Cime, and disposed her toward him. It is my 
transgression, not Vashanka's. And I am not going to make it easy for you: you will have to 
slaughter me, which I would much prefer to being the puppet of yet another omnipotent force." 

And with a growl that was long and seared his inner ear and set his teeth on edge, the clouds 


began to dissolve around him, and the darkness to fade away. 

began to dissolve around him, and the darkness to fade away. 

There passed an interval of soft exchanges, which did not explain either where Tempus had 
disappeared to, or why Niko's gear had turned white-hot against the Stormbringer's whirlpool cold, 
and of assessing damages (none, beyond frostbite, blisters, scrapes and Tempus' flayed swordhand) 
and suggestions as to where they might recoup their strength. 

The tearful First Consort was calmed, and Torchholder's people (no one could locate the priest) 
told to watch her well. 

Outside the temple, they saw that the mist had let go of the streets; an easy night lay chill and 
brisk upon the town. The three walked back to the mageguild at a leisurely pace, to reclaim their 
panoplies and their horses. When they got there they found that the Second and Third Hazards had 
claimed the evening's confrontation to be of their making, a cosmological morality play, their most 
humbly offered entertainment which the guests had taken too much to heart. Did not Vashanka 
triumph? Was not the cloud of evil vanquished? Had not the wondrous tent of pink-and-lemon 
summer sky returned to illuminate the mageguild's fte? 

Janni snarled and flushed with rage at the adepts' dissembling, threatening to go turn Torchholder 
(who had preceded them back among the celebrants, disheveled, loudmouthed, but none the worse 
for wear) upside down to see if any truth might fall out, but Niko cautioned him to let fools believe 
what fools believe, and to make his farewells brief and politewhatever they felt about the mages, 
they had to live with them. 

When at last they rode out of the Street of Arcana toward the Alekeep to quench their 
well-earned thirsts where Niko could check on the faring of a girl who mattered to him, he was 
ponying the extra horse he had lent Akelon, since neither the dream lord nor his companion Jihan 
had been anywhere to be found among guests trying grimly to recapture at least a semblance of 
revelry. 

For Niko, the slow ride through mercifully dark streets was a godsend, the deep midnight sky a 
mask he desperately needed to keep between him and the world awhile. In its cover, he could 
afford to let his composure, slipping away inexorably of its own weight, fall from him altogether. As 
it happened, because of the riderless horse, he was bringing up the rear. That, too, suited him, as 
did their tortuous progress through the ways and intersections thronging intermittently with 
upper-class (if there was such a distinction to be made here) Ilsigs ushering in the new year. 
Personally, he didn't like the start of it: the events of the last twenty-four hours he considered 
somewhat less than auspicious. He fingered the enameled cuirass with its twining snakes and glyphs 
which the entelechy Akelon had given him, touched the dirk at his waist, the matching sword slung 
at his hip. The hilts of both were worked as befitted weapons bound for a son of the armies, with 
the lightning and the lions and the bulls which were, the world over, the signatures of its Storm 
Gods, the gods of war and death. But the workmanship was foreign, and the raised demons on 
both scabbards belonged to the primal deities of an earlier age, whose sway was misty, everywhere 
but among the western islands where Niko had gone to strive for initiation into his chosen mystery 
and mastery over body and soul. The most appropriate legends graced these opulent arms that a 
shadow lord had given him; in the old ways and the elder gods and in the disciplines of transcendent 
perception, Niko sought perfection, a mystic calm. The weapons were perfect, save for two 


blemishes: they were fashioned from precious metals, and made nearly priceless by the antiquity of 
their style; they were charmed, warm to the touch, capable of meeting infernal forces and doing 
damage upon icy whirlwinds sent from unnamed gods. Nikodemos favored unarmed kills, minimal 
effort, precision. He judged himself sloppy should it become necessary to parry an opponent's 
stroke more than once. The temple-dancing exhibitions of proud swordsmen who "tested each 
other's mettle" and had time to indulge in style and disputatious dialogue repelled him: one got in, 
made the kill, and got out, hopefully leaving the enemy unknowing; if not, confused. 

blemishes: they were fashioned from precious metals, and made nearly priceless by the antiquity of 
their style; they were charmed, warm to the touch, capable of meeting infernal forces and doing 
damage upon icy whirlwinds sent from unnamed gods. Nikodemos favored unarmed kills, minimal 
effort, precision. He judged himself sloppy should it become necessary to parry an opponent's 
stroke more than once. The temple-dancing exhibitions of proud swordsmen who "tested each 
other's mettle" and had time to indulge in style and disputatious dialogue repelled him: one got in, 
made the kill, and got out, hopefully leaving the enemy unknowing; if not, confused. 

When they dismounted at the Alekeep, he'd come to a negotiated settlement within himself: he 
would wait to see if what Tempus said was true, if his moat would return to him once his 
teammate's spirit ascended to heaven on a pillar of flame. He was not unaware of the rhythmic 
nature of enlightenment through the precession of events. He had come to Ranke with his partner at 
Abarsis' urging: he remembered the Slaughter Priest from his early days of ritual and war, and had 
made his own decision, not followed blindly because his left-side leader wished to teach Rankans 
the glory of his name. When the elder fighter had put it to him, his friend had said that it might be 
time for Nikodemos to lead his own teamafter Ranke, without doubt, the older man would lay 
down his sword. He had been dreaming, he'd said, of mother's milk and waving crops and 
snot-nosed brats with wooden shields, a sure sign a man is done with damp camps and bloody 
dead stripped in the field. 

So it would have happened, this year, or the next, that he would be alone. He must come to 
terms with it; not whine silently like an abandoned child, or seek a new and stronger arm to lean on. 
Meditation should have helped him, though he recalled a parchment grin and a toothless mouth 
instructing him that what is needed is never to be had without price. 

The price of the thick brown ale in which the Alekeep specialized was doubled for the holiday's 
night-long vigil, but they paid not one coin, drinking, instead, in a private room in back where the 
grateful owner led them: he'd heard about the manifestation at the mageguild, and had been glad he 
had taken Niko's advice and kept his girls inside. "Can I let them out, then?" he said with a twinkling 
eye. "Now that you are here? Would the Lord Marshal and his distinguished Stepsons care for 
some gentle companionship, this jolly eve?" 

Tempus, flexing his open hand on which the clear serum glistened as it thickened into scabby 


skin, told him to keep his children locked up until dawn, and sent him away so brusquely Janni eyed 
Niko askance. 

skin, told him to keep his children locked up until dawn, and sent him away so brusquely Janni eyed 
Niko askance. 

The placement of their seats, backs generously offered to any who might enter, spoke so clearly 
of their failure that neither said a word, only moved their chairs to the single table's narrow sides. 
When next the door swung open, One-Thumb, not their host, stood there, and Tempus chuckled 
hoarsely in the hulking wrestler's face. "Only you, Lastel? I own you had me worried." 

"Where is she, Tempus? What have you done with her?" Lastel stomped forward, put both 
ham-hands flat upon the table, his thick neck thrust forward, bulging with veins. 

"Are you tired of living, One-Thumb? Go back to your hidey-hole. Maybe she's there, maybe 
not. If not easy come, easy go." 

Lasters face purpled; his words rode on a froth of spray so that Janni reached for his dagger and 
Niko had to kick him. 

"Your sister's disappeared and you don't care?" 

"I let Cime snuggle up with you in your thieves' shanty. If I had 'cared," would I have done that? 
And did I care, I would have to say to you that you aspire beyond your station, with her. Stick to 
whoremistresses and street urchins, in future. Or go talk to the mageguild, or your gods if you have 
the ears of any. Perhaps you can reclaim her for some well-bartered treachery or a block of 
Caronne krrf. Meanwhile, you who are about to become 'No-Thumbs," mark these two" He 
gestured to either side, to Niko and Janni. "They'll be around to see you in the next few days, and I 
caution you to treat them with the utmost deference. They can be very temperamental. As for 
myself, I've had easier days, and so am willing to estimate for you your chances of walking out of 
here with all appendages yet attached and in working order, though your odds are lessening with 
every breath I have to watch you take" Tempus was rising as he spoke. Lastel gave back, his 
flushed face paling visibly as Tempus proposed a new repository for his prosthetic thumb, then 
retreated with surprising alacrity toward the half-open door in which the tavern's owner now stood 
uncertainly, now disappeared. 

But Lastel was not fast enough; Tempus had him by the throat. Holding him off the ground, he 
made One-Thumb mouth civil farewells to both the Stepsons before he dropped him and let him 
dash away. 

* * * 

At sundown the next day (a perfectly natural sundown without a hint of wizard weather about it), 
Niko's partner's long-delayed funeral was held before the repiled stones of Vashanka's field altar, 
out behind the arena where once had been a slaver's girl-run. A hawk heading home flew over, right 
to left, most auspicious of bird omina, and when it had gone, the men swore, Abarsis' ghost 
materialized to guide the fallen mercenary's spirit up to heaven. These two favorable omens were 
attributed by most to the fact that Niko had sacrificed the enchanted cuirass Akelon had given him 
to the fire of his left-man's bier. 

Then Niko released Tempus from his vow of pairbond, demurring that Nikodemos himself had 
never accepted, explaining that it was time for him to be a left-side fighter, which, with Tempus, he 
could never be. And Janni stood close by, looking uncomfortable and sheepish, not realizing that in 
this way Tempus was freed from worrying that harm might come to Niko on account of Tempus' 
curse. 


Seeing Abarsis' shade, wizard-haired and wise, tawny skin quite translucent yet upswept eyes 
the same, smiling out love upon the Stepsons and their commander, Tempus almost wept. Instead 
he raised his hand in greeting, and the elegant ghost blew him a kiss. 

Seeing Abarsis' shade, wizard-haired and wise, tawny skin quite translucent yet upswept eyes 
the same, smiling out love upon the Stepsons and their commander, Tempus almost wept. Instead 
he raised his hand in greeting, and the elegant ghost blew him a kiss. 

When the last of the men had wandered off to game or drink or duty, he had stayed at the shrine 
awhile, considering Vashanka and the god's habit of leaving him to fight both their battles as best he 
could. 

So it was that he heard a soft sound, half hiccough and half sniffle, from the altar's far side, as the 
dusk cloaked him close. 

When he went to see what it was, he saw Jihan, sitting slumped against a rough-hewn plinth, 
tearing brown grasses to shreds between her fingers. He squatted down there, to determine whether 
a Froth Daughter could shed human tears. 

Dusk was his favorite time, when the sun had fled and the night was luminous with memory. 
Sometimes, his thoughts would follow the light, fading, and the man who never slept would find 
himself dozing, at rest. 

This evening, it was not sleep he sought to chase in his private witching hour: he touched her 
scaled, enameled armor, its gray/green/copper pattern just dappled shadow in the deepening dark. 
"This does come off?" he asked her. 

"Oh, yes. Like so." 

"Come to think of it," he remarked after a strenuous but rewarding interval, "it's not so bad that 
you are stranded here. Your father's pique will ease eventually. Meanwhile, I have an extra Trs 
horse. Having two of them to tend has been hard on me. You could take over the care of one. And, 
too, if you are going to wait the year out as a mortal, perhaps you would consider staying on in 
Sanctuary. We are sore in need of fighting women this season." 

She clutched his arm; he winced. "Do not offer me a sinecure," she said. "And, consider: I will 
have you, too, should I stay." 

Promise or threat, he was not certain, but he was reasonably sure that he could deal with her, 
either way. 

Book Two: 

HIGH MOON 


Just south of Caravan Square and the bridge over the White Foal River, the Nisibisi witch had 
settled in. She had leased the isolated complexone three-storied "manor house" and its 
outbuildingsas much because its grounds extended to the White Foal's edge (rivers covered a 
multitude of disposal problems) as for its proximity to her business interests in the Wide-way 
warehouse district and its convenience to her caravan master, who must visit the Square at all hours. 

Just south of Caravan Square and the bridge over the White Foal River, the Nisibisi witch had 
settled in. She had leased the isolated complexone three-storied "manor house" and its 
outbuildingsas much because its grounds extended to the White Foal's edge (rivers covered a 
multitude of disposal problems) as for its proximity to her business interests in the Wide-way 
warehouse district and its convenience to her caravan master, who must visit the Square at all hours. 

Lately, a pair of Stepsons had been her particular concern. And Jagather first lieutenant in 
espionagewas no less worried. Even their Ilsig contact, the unflappable Lastel who had lived a 
dozen years in Sanctuary, cesspool of the Rankan empire into which all lesser sewers fed, and 
managed all that time to keep his dual identity as east side entrepreneur and Maze-dwelling barman 
uncompromised, was distrssed by the attention the pair of Stepsons were paying her. 

She had thought her allies overcautious at first, when it seemed she would be here only long 
enough to see to the "death" of the Rankan war god, Vashanka. Discrediting the state-cult's power 
icon was the purpose for which the Nisibisi witch, Roxane, had come down from Wizardwall's 
fastness, down from her shrouded keep of black marble on its unscalable peak, down among the 
mortal and the damned. They were all in this together: the mages of Nisibis; Lacan Ajami (warlord 
of Mygdon and the known world north of Wizardwall) with whom they had made pact; and the 
whole Mygdonian Alliance which he controlled. 

Or so her lord and lover had explained it when he decreed that Roxane must come. She had not 
arguedone pays one's way among sorcerers; she had not worked hard for a decade nor faced 
danger in twice as long. And if one did not serve Mygdononly oneall would suffer. The 
Alliance was too strong to thwart. So she was here, drawn here with others fit for better, as if some 
power more than magical was whipping up a tropical storm to cleanse the land and using them to 
gild its eye. 

She should have been home by now; she would have been, but for the hundred ships from 
Beysib which had come to port and skewed all plans. Word had come from Mygdon, capital of 
Mygdonia, through the Nisibisi network, that she must stay. 

And so it had become crucial that the Stepsons who sniffed round her skirts be kept at bayor 
ensnared, or bought, or enslaved. Or, if not, destroyed. But carefully, so carefully. For Tempus, 
who had been her enemy three decades ago when he fought the Defender's wars on Wizardwall's 
steppes, was a dozen Storm Gods' avatar; no army he sanctified could know defeat; no war he 
fought could not be won. Combat was life to him; he fought like the gods themselves, like an 
entelechy from a higher sphereand even had friends among those powers not corporeal or 
vulnerable to sortilege of the quotidian sort a human might employ. 

And now it was being decreed in Mygdonia's tents that he must be removed from the 
fieldtaken out of play in this southern theater, maneuvered north where the warlocks could 
neutralize him. Such was the word her lover/lord had sent her: move him north, or make him 
impotent where he stayed. The god he served here had been easier to rout. But she doubted that 
would incapacitate him; there were other Storm Gods, and Tempus, who under a score of names 
had fought in more dimensions than she had ever visited, knew them all. Vashanka's denouement 
might scare the Rankans and give the Ilsigs hope, but more than rumors and manipulation of 


theomachy by even the finest witch would be needed to make Tempus fold his hand or bow his 
head. To make him run, then, was an impossibility. To lure him north, she hoped, was not. For this 
was no place for Roxane. Her nose was offended by the stench which blew east from Downwind 
and north from Fisherman's Row and west from the Maze and south from either the slaughterhouses 
or the palaceshe'd not decided which. 

theomachy by even the finest witch would be needed to make Tempus fold his hand or bow his 
head. To make him run, then, was an impossibility. To lure him north, she hoped, was not. For this 
was no place for Roxane. Her nose was offended by the stench which blew east from Downwind 
and north from Fisherman's Row and west from the Maze and south from either the slaughterhouses 
or the palaceshe'd not decided which. 

Having gotten it, she was about to set her plan in motion. To begin it, she had called upon 
Lastel/One-Thumb and cried foul: "Tempus's sister, Cime the free agent, was part of our bargain, 
Ilsig. If you cannot produce her, then she cannot aid me, and I am paying you far too much for a 
third-rate criminal's paltry talents." 

The huge wrestler adjusted his deceptively soft gut. His east side house was commodious; dogs 
barked in their pens and favorite curs lounged about their feet, under the samovar, upon riotous silk 
prayer rugs, in the embrace of comely krrf-drugged slavesnot her idea of entertainment, but 
Lastel's, his sweating forehead and heavy breathing proclaimed as he watched the bestial event a 
dozen other guests found fetching. 

The dusky Ilsigs saw nothing wrong in enslaving their own race. Nisibisi had more pride. It was 
well that these were comfortable with slaverythey would know it far more intimately, by and by. 

But her words had jogged her host, and Lastel came up on one elbow, his cushions suddenly 
askew. He, too, had been partaking of krrfnot smoking it, as was the Ilsig custom, but mixing it 
with other drugs which made it sink into the blood directly through the skin. The effects were 
greater, and less predictable. 

As she had hoped, her words had the power of krrf behind them. Fear showed in the jowled 
mountain's eyes. He knew what she was; the fear was her due. Any of these were helpless before 
her, should she decide a withered soul or two might amuse her. Their essences could lighten her 
load as krrf lightened theirs. 

The gross man spoke quickly, a whine of excuses: the woman had "disappeared taken by 
Akelon, the very lord of dreams. All at the mageguild's fte where the god was vanquished saw it. 
You need not take my wordwitnesses are legion." 

She fixed him with her pale stare. Ilsigs were called Wrigglies, and Lastel's craven self was a 
good example why. She felt disgust and stared longer. 

The man before her dropped his eyes, mumbling that their agreement had not hinged on the 
mage-killer Cime, that he was doing more than his share as it was, for little enough profit, that the 
risks were too high. 

And to prove to her he was still her creature, he warned her again of the Stepsons: "That pair of 
Whoresons Tempus sicced on you should concern us, not moneywhich neither of us will be alive 
to spend if" One of the slaves cried out, whether in pleasure or pain Roxane could not be certain; 
Lastel did not even look up, but continued: "Tempus finds out we've thirty stone of krrf in" 

She interrupted him, not letting him name the hiding place. "Then do this that I ask of you, 
without question. We will be rid of the problem they cause, thereafter, and have our own sources 
who'll tell us what Tempus does and does not know." 

A slave serving mulled wine approached, and both took electrum goblets. For Roxane, the 
liquor was an advantage: looking into its depths, she could see what few cogent thoughts ran 


through the fat drug dealer's mind. 

through the fat drug dealer's mind. 

To banish her leggy nakedness from the surface of her wine, she said straight out: "You know 
the other bar owners. The Alekeep's proprietor has a girl about to graduate from school. Arrange 
to host her party, let it be known that you will sell those children krrfTamzen is the child I mean. 
Then have your flunky lead her down to Shambles Cross. Leave them thereup to half a dozen 
youngsters, it may belost in the drug and the slum." 

"That will tame two vicious Stepsons? You do know the men I mean? Janni? And Stealth? They 
bugger each other, Stepsons. Girls are beside the point. And Stealthhe's a fuzz-busterI've 
seen him with no woman old enough for breasts. Surely" 

"Surely," she cut in smoothly, "you don't want to know more than thatin case it goes awry. 
Protection in these matters lies in ignorance." She would not tell him morenot that Stealth, called 
Nikodemos, had come out of Azehur, where he'd earned his war name and worked his way toward 
Syr in search of a Trs horse via Mygdonia, hiring on as a caravan guard and general roustabout, or 
that a dispute over a consignment lost to mountain bandits had made him bondservant for a year to 
a Nisibisi mageher lover-lord. There was a string on Nikodemos, ready to be pulled. 

And when he felt it, it would be too late, and she would be at the end of it. 

* * * 

Tempus had allowed Niko to breed his sorrel mare to his own Trs stallion to quell mutters 
among knowledgeable Stepsons that assigning Niko and Janni to hazardous duty in the town was 
their commander's way of punishing the slate-haired fighter who had declined Tempus's offered 
pairbond in favor of Janni's and subsequently quit their ranks. 

Now the mare was pregnant and Tempus was curious as to what kind of foal the union might 
produce, but rumors of foul play still abounded. 

Critias, Tempus's second in command, had paused in his dour report and now stirred his posset 
of cooling wine and barley and goat's cheese with a finger, then wiped the finger on his bossed 
cuirass, burnished from years of use. They were meeting in the mercenaries' guild hostel, in its 
common room, dark as congealing blood and safe as a grave, where Tempus had bade the veteran 
mercenary lodgean operations officer charged with secret actions could be no part of the 
Stepsons' barracks cohort. They met covertly, on occasion; most times, coded messages brought 
by unwitting couriers were enough. 

Crit, too, it seemed, thought Tempus wrong in sending Janni, a guileless cavalryman, and Niko, 
the youngest of the Stepsons, to spy upon the witch: clandestine schemes were Grit's province, and 
Tempus had usurped, overstepped the bounds of their agreement. Tempus had allowed that Crit 
might take over management of the fielded team and Crit had grunted wryly, saying he'd run them 
but not take the blame if they lost both men to the witch's wiles. 

Tempus had agreed with the pleasant-looking Syrese agent and they had gone on to other 
business: Prince/Governor Kadakithis was insistent upon contacting Jubal, the slaver whose estate 
the Stepsons sacked and made their home. "But when we had the black bastard, you said to let him 
crawl away." 


"Kadakithis expressed no interest." Tempus shrugged. "He has changed his mind, perhaps in 
light of the appearance of these mysterious death squads your people haven't been able to identify 
or apprehend. If your teams can't deliver Jubal or turn up a hawkmask who is in contact with him, 
I'll find another way." 

"Kadakithis expressed no interest." Tempus shrugged. "He has changed his mind, perhaps in 
light of the appearance of these mysterious death squads your people haven't been able to identify 
or apprehend. If your teams can't deliver Jubal or turn up a hawkmask who is in contact with him, 
I'll find another way." 

"No," he replied, to all of it, then added: "Gods don't die; men die. Boys die in multitudes. The 
thief, Shadowspawn, is no threat to us, just misguided, semiliterate, and vain, like all boys. Bring me 
a conduit to Jubal, or the slaver himself. Contact Niko and have him reportif the witch needs a 
lesson, I myself will undertake to teach it. And keep your watch upon the fish-eyed folk from the 
shipsI'm not sure yet that they're as harmless as they seem." 

Having given Crit enough to do to keep his mind off the rumors of the god Vashanka's 
troublesand hence, his own he rose to leave. "Some results, by week's end, would be 
welcome." The officer toasted him cynically as Tempus walked away. 

Outside, his Trs horse whinnied joyfully. He stroked its mist-dappled neck and felt the sweat 
there. The weather was close, an early heatwave as unwelcome as the late frosts which had frozen 
the winter crops a week before their harvest and killed the young sets just planted in anticipation of 
a bounteous fall. 

He mounted up and headed south by the granaries toward the palace's north wall where a gate, 
nowhere as peopled or public as the Gate of the Gods, was set into the wall by the cisterns. He 
would talk to Prince Kittycat, then tour the Maze on his way home to the barracks. 

But the prince wasn't receiving, and Tempus's mood was illjust as well; he had been going to 
confront the young popinjay, as once or twice a month he was sure he must do, without courtesy or 
appropriate deference. If Kadakithis was holed up in conference with the blond-haired, fish-eyed 
folk from the ships and had not called upon him to join them, then it was not surprising: since the 
gods had battled in the sky above the mageguild, all things had become confused, worse had come 
to worst, and Tempus' curse had fallen on him once again with its full force. 

Perhaps the god was deadcertainly, Vashanka's voice in his ear was absent. He'd gone out 
raping once or twice to see if the Lord of Pillage could be roused to take part in His favorite sport. 
But the god had not rustled around in his head since New Year's day; the resultant fear of harm to 
those who loved him by the curse that denied him love had made a solitary man withdraw even 
further into himself; only the Froth Daughter Jihan, hardly human, though woman in form, kept him 
company now. 

And that, as much as anything, irked the Stepsons. Theirs was a closed fraternity, open only to 
the paired lovers of the Sacred Band and distinguished single mercenaries culled from a score of 
nations and diverted, by Tempus' service and Kittycat's gold, from the northern insurrection they'd 
drifted through Sanctuary en route to join. 


He, too, ached to war, to fight a declared enemy, to lead his cohort north. But there was his 
word to a Rankan faction to do his best for a petty prince, and there was this thrice-cursed fleet of 
merchant warriors come to harbor talking "peaceful trade" while their vessels rode too low in the 
water to be filled with grain or cloth or spicesif not barter, his instinct told him, the Burek faction 
of Beysib would settle for conquest. 

He, too, ached to war, to fight a declared enemy, to lead his cohort north. But there was his 
word to a Rankan faction to do his best for a petty prince, and there was this thrice-cursed fleet of 
merchant warriors come to harbor talking "peaceful trade" while their vessels rode too low in the 
water to be filled with grain or cloth or spicesif not barter, his instinct told him, the Burek faction 
of Beysib would settle for conquest. 

Once, long ago, when he went abroad as a philosopher and sought a calmer life in a calmer 
world, he had said that to gods all things are beautiful and good and just, but men have supposed 
some things to be unjust, others just. If the god had died, or been banished, though it didn't seem 
that this could be so, then it was meet that this occurred. But those who thought it so did not realize 
that one could not escape the intelligible light: the notice of that which never sets: the apprehension 
of the elder gods. So he had asked, and so he waited. 

He had no doubt that the answer would be forthcoming, as he had no doubt that he would not 
mistake it when it came. 

On his way to the Maze he brooded over his curse, which kept him unloved by the living and 
spurned by any he favored if they be mortal. In heaven he had a brace of lovers, ghosts like the 
original Stepson, Abarsis. But to heaven he could not repair: his flesh regenerated itself 
immemorially; to make sure this was still the case, last night he had gone to the river and slit both 
wrists. By the time he'd counted to fifty the blood had ceased to follow and healing had begun. That 
gift of healingif gift it wasstill remained his, and since it was god-given, some power more than 
mortal "loved" him still. 

It was whim that made him stop by the weapons shop the mercenaries favored. Three horses 
tethered out front were known to him; one was Niko's stallion, a big black with points like rust and 
a jughead on thickening neck perpetually sweatbanded with sheepskin to keep its jowls modest. 
The horse, as mean as it was ugly, snorted a challenge to Tempus' Trsthe black resented that 
the Trs had climbed Niko's mare. 

He tethered it at the far end of the line and went inside, among the crossbows, the flying wings, 
the steel and wooden quarrels and the swords. 

Only a woman sat behind the counter, pulchritudinous and vain, her neck hung with a wealth of 
baubles, her flesh perfumed. She knew him, and in seconds his nose detected acrid, nervous sweat, 
and the defensive musk a woman can exude. 

"Marc's out with the boys in back, sighting-in the high-torque bows. Shall I get him, Lord 
Marshal? Or may I help you? What's here's yours, my lord, on trial or as our gift' Her arm 
spread wide, bangles tinkling, indicating the racked weapons. 

"I'll take a look out back, madam, don't disturb yourself." 

She settled back, not calm, but bidden to remain and obedient. 

In the ochre-walled yard ten men were gathered behind the log fence that marked the range; a 
hundred yards away three oxhides had been fastened to the encircling wall, targets painted red upon 
them; between the hides, three cuirasses of four-ply hardened leather armored with bronze plates 


were propped and filled with straw. 

were propped and filled with straw. 

The large-headed, raw-boned smith sporting a beard which evened a rough complexion rose 
with exaggerated effort and turned to another customer, just stepping up to the firing line. "No, 
Stealth, not like that, or, if you must, I'll change the tension" Marc moved in, telling Niko to throw 
the bow up to his shoulder and fire from there, then saw Tempus and left the group, hands 
spreading on his apron. 

Bolts spat and thunked from five shooters when the morning's range officer hollered "Clear" and 
"Fire," then "Hold," so that all could go to the wall to check their aim and the depths to which the 
shafts had sunk. 

Shaking his head, the smith confided: "Straton's got a problem I can't solve. I've had it truly 
sightedperfect for me three times, but when he shoots, it's as if he's aiming two feet low." 

"For the bow, the name is life, but the work is death. In combat it will shoot true for him; here, 
he's worried how they judge his prowess. He's not thinking enough of his weapon, too much of his 
friends." 

The smith's keen eyes shifted; he rubbed his smile with a greasy hand. "Aye, and that's the truth. 
And for you, Lord Tempus? We've the new hard-steel, though why they're all so hot to pay twice 
the price when men're soft as clay and even wood will pierce the boldest belly, I can't say." 

"No steel, just a case of iron-tipped short flights, when you can." 

"I'll select them myself. Come and watch them, now? We'll see what their nerve's like, if you call 
score" 

"A moment or two, Marc. Go back to your work, I'll sniff around on my own." 

And so he approached Niko, on pretense of admiring the Stepson's new bow, and saw the 
shadowed eyes, blank as ever but veiled like the beginning beard that masked his jaw: "How goes 
it, Niko? Has your moat returned to you?" 

"Not likely," the young fighter said, cranking the spring and lever so a bolt notched and triggered 
the quarrel which whispered straight and true to center his target. "Did Crit send you? I'm fine, 
commander. He worries too much. We can handle her, no matter how it seems. It's just time we 
need she's suspicious, wants us to prove our faith. Shall I, by whatever means?" 

"Another week on this is all I can give you. Use discretion, your judgment's fine with me. What 
you think she's worth, she's worth. If Critias questions that, your orders came from me and you may 
tell him so." 

"I will, and with pleasure. I'm not his to wetnurse; he can't keep that in his head." 

"And Janni?" 

"It's hard on him, pretending to be what we're pretending to be. The men talk to him about 
coming back out to the barracks, about forgetting what's past and resuming his duties. But we'll 
weather it. He's man enough." 

Niko's hazel eyes flicked back and forth, judging the other men: who watched; who pretended 
he did not, but listened hard. He loosed another bolt, a third, and said quietly that he had to collect 
his flights. Tempus eased away, heard the range officer call "Clear" and watched Niko go retrieve 


his grouped quarrels. 

his grouped quarrels. 

Content, he left then, and found Jihan, his de facto right-side partner, waiting astride his other 
Trs horse, her more than human strength and beauty brightening Smith Street's ramshackle facade 
as if real gold lay beside fool's gold in a dusty pan. 

Though one of the matters estranging him from his Stepsons was his pairing with this foreign 
"woman," only Niko knew her to be the daughter of a power who spawned all contentious gods 
and even the concept of divinity; he felt the cool her flesh gave off, cutting the midday heat like wind 
from a snowcapped peak. 

"Life to you, Tempus." Her voice was thick as ale, and he realized he was thirsty. Promise Park 
and the Alekeep, an east side establishment considered upper class by those who could tell classes 
of Ilsigs, were right around the corner, a block up the Street of Gold from where they met. He 
proposed to take her there for lunch. She was delightedall things mortal were new to her; the 
whole business of being in flesh and attending to it was yet novel. A novice at life, Jinan was hungry 
for the whole of it. 

For him, she served a special purpose: her loveplay was rough and her constitution hardier than 
his Trs horseshe could not couple gently; with her, he did not inflict permanent harm on his 
partner; she was bom of violence inchoate and savored what would kill or cripple mortals. 

At the Alekeep, they were welcome. In a back and private room, they talked of the god's 
absence and what could be made of it, and the owner served them himself, an avuncular sort still 
grateful that Tempus' men had kept his daughters safe when wizard weather roamed the streets. 
"My girl's graduating school today, Lord Marshalmy youngest. We've a fte set, and you and 
your companion would be most welcome guests." 

Jinan touched his arm as he began to decline, her stormy eyes flecked red and glowing. 

" ah, perhaps we will drop by, then, if business permits." 

But they didn't, having found pressing matters of lust to attend to, and all things that happened 
then might have been avoided if they hadn't been out of touch with the Stepsons, unreachable down 
by the creek that ran north of the barracks when sorcery met machination and all things went awry. 

On their way to work, Niko and Janni stopped at the Vulgur Unicorn to wait for the moon to 
rise. The moon would be full this evening, a blessing since anonymous death squads roamed the 
townwhether they were Rankan army regulars, Jubal's scattered hawkmasks, fish-eyed Beysib 
spoilers, or Nisibisi assassins, none could say. 

The one thing that could be said of them for certain was that they weren't Stepsons or Sacred 
Banders or nonaligned mercenaries from the guild hostel. But there was no convincing the terrorized 
populace of that. 

And Niko and Janniunder the guise of disaffected mercenaries who had quit the Stepsons, 
been thrown out of the guild hostel for unspeakable acts, and were currently degenerating 
Sanctuary-style in the filthy streets of the townthought that they were close to identifying the death 
squads' leader. Hopefully, this evening or the next, they would be asked to join the murderers in 
their squalid sport. 

Not that murder was uncommon in Sanctuary, or squalor. The Maze, now that Niko knew it 
like his horses' needs or Janni's limits, was not the town's true nadir, only the multi-tiered slum's 
upper echelon. Worse than the Maze was Shambles Cross, filled with the weak and the meek; 
worse than the Shambles was Downwind, where nothing moved in the light of day and at night 
hellish sounds rode the stench on the prevailing east wind across the White Foal. A tri-level hell, 


then, filled with murderers, sold souls and succubi, began here in the Maze. 

then, filled with murderers, sold souls and succubi, began here in the Maze. 

The Unicorn crowd no longer turned quiet when Niko and Janni entered; their scruffy faces and 
shabby gear and bleary eyes proclaimed them no threat to the mendicants or the whores. 
Competition, they were now considered, and it had been hard to float the legend, harder to live it. 
Or to live it down, since none of the Stepsons but their task force leader, Crit (who himself had 
never moved among the barracks ranks, proud and shining with oil and fine weapons and finer 
ideals) knew that they had not quit but only worked shrouded in subterfuge on Tempus' orders to 
flush the Nisibisi witch. 

But the emergence of the death squads had raised the pitch, the ante, given the matter a new 
urgency. Some said it was because Shadowspawn, the thief, was right: the god Vashanka had died, 
and the Rankans would suffer their due. Their due or not, traders, politicians, and 
moneylendersthe "oppressors"were nightly dragged out into the streets, whole families 
slaughtered or burned alive in their houses, or hacked to pieces in their festooned wagons. 

The agents ordered draughts from One-Thumb's new girl and she came back, cowering but 
determined, saying that One-Thumb must see their money first. They had started this venture with 
the barman's help; he knew their provenance; they knew his secret. 

"Let's kill the swillmonger, Stealth," Janni growled. They had little casha few soldats and some 
Machadi coppers and couldn't draw their pay until their work was done. 

"Steady, Janni. I'll talk to him. Girl, fetch two Rankan ales or you won't be able to close your 
legs for a week." 

He pushed back his bench and strode to the bar, aware that he was only half joking, that 
Sanctuary was rubbing him raw. Was the god dead? Was Tempus in thrall to the Froth Daughter 
who kept his company? Was Sanctuary the honeypot of chaos? A hell from which no man 
emerged? He pushed a threesome of young puds aside and whistled piercingly when he reached the 
bar. The big bartender looked around elaborately, raised a scar-crossed eyebrow, and ignored him. 
Stealth counted to ten and then methodically began emptying other patrons' drinks onto the counter. 
Men were few here; approximations cursed him and backed away; one went for a beltknife but 
Stealth had a dirk in his hand that gave him pause. Niko's gear was dirty, but better than any of 
these had. And he was ready to clean his soiled blade in any one of them. They sensed it; his 
peripheral perception read their moods, though he couldn't read their minds. Where his maathis 
balanceonce had been was a cold, sick anger. In Sanctuary he had learned despair and futility, 
and these had introduced him to fury. Options he once had considered last resorts, off the 
battlefield, came easily to mind now. Son of the armies, he was learning a different kind of war in 
Sanctuary, and learning to love the havoc his own right arm could wreak. It was not a substitute for 
the equilibrium he'd lost when his left-side leader died down by the docks, but if his partner needed 
souls to buy a better place in heaven, Niko would gladly send him double his comfort's price. 

The ploy brought One-Thumb down to stop him. "Stealth, I've had enough of you." 
One-Thumb's mouth was swollen, his upper lip crusted with sores, but his ponderous bulk loomed 
large; from the corner of his eye Niko could see the Unicorn's bouncer leave his post and Janni 
intercept him. 


Niko reached out and grabbed One-Thumb by the throat, even as the man's paw reached under 
the bar, where a weapon might lie. He pulled him close: "What you've had isn't even a shadow of 
what you're going to get, Turn-Turn, if you don't mind your tongue. Turn back into the 
well-mannered little troll we both know and love, or you won't have a bar to hide behind by 
morning." Then, sotto voce: "What's up?" 

Niko reached out and grabbed One-Thumb by the throat, even as the man's paw reached under 
the bar, where a weapon might lie. He pulled him close: "What you've had isn't even a shadow of 
what you're going to get, Turn-Turn, if you don't mind your tongue. Turn back into the 
well-mannered little troll we both know and love, or you won't have a bar to hide behind by 
morning." Then, sotto voce: "What's up?" 

Niko let him go before his eyes popped out of his head. "You'll put this on our tab?" 

"Just this one more time, beggar boy. Your Whoreson bugger-buddies won't lift a leg to help 
you; your threats are as empty as your purse." 

"Care to bet on it?" 

They carried on a bit more, for the crowd's benefit, Janni and the bouncer engaged in a staring 
match the while. "Call your cur off, then, and we'll forget about thisthis once." Niko turned, neck 
aprickle, and headed back toward his seat, hoping that it wouldn't go any further. Not one of the 
four bouncer, bar owner, Stepsonswas entirely playing to the crowd. 

When he'd reached his door-facing table, Lastel/One-Thumb called his bruiser off, and Janni 
backed toward Niko, white-faced and trembling with eagerness: "Let me geld one of them, Stealth. 
It'll do our reputations no end of good." 

"Save it for the witch-bitch." 

Janni brightened, straddling his seat, both arms on the table, digging fiercely with his dirk into the 
wood: "You've got a rendezvous?" 

"Tonight, high moon. Don't drink too much." It wasn't the drink that skewed them, but the knf 
they snorted, little piles poured into clenched fists where thumb muscles made a well. Still, the drug 
would keep them alert: it was a long time until high moon, and they had to patrol for marauders 
while seeming to be marauding themselves. It was almost more than Niko could bear. He'd 
infiltrated a score of camps, lines and palaces on reconnaissance sorties with his deceased partner, 
but those were cleaner, quicker actions than this protracted infiltration of Sanctuary, bunghole of the 
known world. If this evening made an end to it and he could wash and shave and stable his horses 
better, he'd make a sacrifice to Enlil which the god Would not soon forget. 

An hour later, mounted, they set off on their tour of the Maze, Niko thinking that not since the 
affair with the archmage Akelon and Tempus's sister Cime had his gut rolled up into a ball with this 
feeling of unmitigated dread. The Nisibisi witch might know himshe might have known him all 
along. He'd been interrogated by Nisibisi before, and he would fall upon his sword rather than 
endure it again now, when his dead teammate's ghost still haunted his mental refuge and meditation 
could not offer him shelter as it once had. 

A boy came running up calling his name, and his jughead black tossed its rust nose high and 
snorted, ears back, waiting for a command to kill or maim. 

"By Vashanka's sulfurous balls, what now?" Janni wondered. 

They sat their mounts in the narrow street; the moon was just rising over the shantytops; people 
slammed their shutters tight and bolted their doors. Niko could catch wisps of fear and loathing 
from behind the houses' facades; two mounted men in these streets meant trouble, no matter whose 
they were. 

The youth trotted up, breathing hard. "Niko! Niko! The master's so upset. Thank Us I've found 
you" The delicate eunuch's lisp identified him: a servant of the Alekeep's owner, one of the few 


men Niko thought of as a friend here. 

men Niko thought of as a friend here. 

The boy raised a hand, and the black snaked his head around fast to bite it. Niko clouted the 
horse between the ears as the boy scrambled back out of range. "Come on, come here. He won't 
try it again. Now, what's your master's message?" 

"Tamzen! Tamzen's gone out without her bodyguard, with" The boy named six of the richest 
Sanctuary families' fast-living youngsters. "They said they'd be right back, but they didn't come. It's 
her party she's missing. The master's beside himself. He said if you can't help him, he'll have to call 
the Hell Houndsthe palace guard, or go out to the Stepsons' barracks. But there's no time, no 
time!" the frail eunuch wailed. 

"Calm down, pud. We'll find her. Tell her father to send word to Tempus anyway; it can't hurt to 
alert the authorities. And say exactly this: that I'll help if I can, but he knows I'm not empowered to 
do more than any citizen. Say it back, now." 

Once the eunuch had repeated the words and run off, Janni said: "How're you going to be in two 
places at once, Stealth? Why'd you tell him that? It's a job for the regulars, not for us. We can't miss 
this meet, not after all the bedbugs I've let chomp on me for this.-" 

"Seh!" The word meant offal in the Nisi tongue. "We'll round her and her friends up in short 
order. They're just blowing off steamit's the heat and school's end. Come on, let's start at 
Promise Park." 

When they got there, the moon showed round and preter-naturally large above the palace, and 
the wind had died. Thoughts of the witch he must meet still troubled Niko, and Janni's grousing 
buzzed in his ears: " we should check in with Crit, let the girl meet her fateours will be worse if 
we're snared by enchantment and no backup alerted to where or how." 

"We'll send word or stop by the Shambles drop, stop worrying." But Janni was not about to 
stop, and Niko's attempts to calm himself, to find transcendent perception in his rest-place and pick 
up the girl's trail by the heattrack she'd left and the things she'd said and done here were made more 
difficult by Janni's worries, which jarred him back to concerns he must put aside, and Janni's words, 
which startled him, over-loud and disruptive, every time he got himself calmed enough to sense 
Tamzen's energy trail among so many others like red/yellow/pink yarn twined among chiaroscuro 
trees. 

Tamzen, thirteen and beautiful, pure and full of fun, who loved him with all her heart and had 
made him promise to "wait" for her: He'd had her, a thing he'd never meant to do, and had her with 
her father's knowledge, confronted by the concerned man one night when Niko, arm around the 
girl's waist, had walked her through the park. "Is this how you repay a friend's kindness, Stealth?" 
the father'd asked. "Better me than any of this trash, my friend. I'll do it right. She's ready, and it 
wouldn't be long, in any case," he'd replied while the girl looked between the soldier, twelve years 
older, and her father, with uncomprehending eyes. He had to find her. 

Janni, as if in receipt of the perceptive spirit Niko tried now to reclaim, swore and mentioned 
that Niko'd had no business getting involved with her, a child. 

"I'm not your type, and as for women, I drink from no other man's tainted cup." So Niko 
broached an uneasy subject: Janni was no Sacred Bander; his camaraderie had limits; Niko's need 
for touch and love the other man knew but could not fill; they had an attenuated pairbond, not 
complete as Sacred Banders knew it, and Janni was uncomfortable with the innuendo and 
assumptions of the other singles, and Niko's unsated needs as well. 

The silence come between them then gave Stealth his chance to find the girl's red time-shadow, 


a hot ghost-trail to follow southwest through the Maze... 

a hot ghost-trail to follow southwest through the Maze... 

Once he thought they'd glimpsed a death squad, and urged Stealth to come alert, but the strange 
young fighter shook his head and hushed him, slouched loose upon his horse as if entranced, 
following some trail that neither Janni nor any mortal man with God's good fear of magic should 
have seen. Janni's heart was troubled by this boy who was too good at craft, who had a charmed 
sword and dagger given him by the entelechy of dreams, yet left them in the barracks, decrying 
magic's price. But what was this, if not sorcery? Janni watched Niko watch the night and take them 
deep into shadowed alleys with all the confidence a mage would flout. The youth had offered to 
teach him "controls" of mind, to take him "up through the planes and get your guide and your 
twelfth-plane name." But Janni was no connoisseur of witchcraft; like boy-loving, he left it to the 
Sacred Banders and the priests. He'd gotten into this with Niko for worldly advantage; the youth 
ten years his junior was pure genius in a fight; he'd seen him work at Jubal's and marveled even in 
the melee of the sack. Niko's reputation for prowess in the field was matched only by Straton's, and 
the stories told of Niko's past. The boy had trained among Successors, the Nisibisi's bane, wild 
guerrillas, mountain commandos who let none through Wizardwall's defiles without gold or life in 
tithe, who'd sworn to reclaim their mountains from the mages and the warlocks and held out, 
outlaws, countering sorcery with swords. In a campaign such as the northern one coming, Niko's 
skills and languages and friends might prove invaluable. Janni, from Maenad, had no love for 
Rankans, but it was said Niko served despite a blood hatred: Rankans had sacked his town 
nameless; his father had died fighting Rankan expansion when the boy was five. Yet he'd come 
south on Abarsis' venture, and stayed when Tempus inherited the band. 

When they crossed the Street of Shingles and headed into Shambles Cross, the pragmatic Janni 
spoke a soldier's safe-conduct prayer and touched his warding charm. A confusion of turns within 
the ways high-grown with hovels which cut off view and sky, they heard commotion, shouting men 
and running feet. 

They spurred their horses and careened round corners, forgetful of their pose as independent 
reavers, for they'd heard Stepsons calling maneuver codes. So it was that they came, sliding their 
horses down on haunches so hard sparks flew from iron-shod hooves, cutting off the retreat of 
three running on foot from Stepsons and vaulted down to the cobbles to lend a hand. 

Niko's horse, itself, took it in its mind to help, and charged past them, reins dragging, head held 
high, to back a fugitive against a mudbrick wall. "Seh! Run, Vis!" they heard, and more in a tongue 
Janni thought might be Nisi, for the exclamation was, 

By then Niko had one by the collar and two quarrels shot by close to Janni's ear. He hollered 
out his identity and called to the shooters to cease their fire before he was skewered like the second 
fugitive, pinned by two bolts against the wall. The third quarry struggled now between the two 
on-duty Stepsons, one of whom called out to Janni to hold the second. It was Straton's voice, Janni 
realized, and Straton's quarrels pinning the indigent by cape and crotch against the wall. Lucky for 
the delinquent it had been: Straton's bolts had pierced no vital spot, just clothing. 

It was not till then that Janni realized that Niko was talking to the first fugitive, the one his horse 
had pinned, in Nisi, and the other answering back, fast and low, his eyes upon the vicious horse, 


quivering and covered with phosphorescent from, who stood watchful by his master, hoping still that 
Niko would let him pound the quarry into gory mud. 

quivering and covered with phosphorescent from, who stood watchful by his master, hoping still that 
Niko would let him pound the quarry into gory mud. 

The one he held at crossbow-point was quiet, submissive, a Sanctuarite, he thought, until 
Straton lit a torch. Then they saw a slave's face, dark and arch like Nisibisis were, and Straton's 
partner spoke for the first time: "That's Haught, the slave-bait." Critias moved forward, torch in 
hand. "Hello, pretty. We'd thought you'd run or died. We've lots to ask you, puppy, and nothing 
we'd rather do tonight" As Crit moved in and Janni stepped back, Janni was conscious that Niko 
and his prisoner had fallen silent. 

The the slave, amazingly, straightened up and raised its head, reaching within its jerkin. Janni 
levered his bow, but the hand came out with a crumpled paper in it, and this he held forth, saying: 
"She freed me. She said this says so. Please I know nothing, but that she's freed me..." 

Crit snatched the feathered parchment from him, held it squinting in the torch's light. "That's right, 
that's what it says here." He rubbed his jaw, then stepped forward. The slave flinched, his 
handsome face turned away. Crit pulled out the bolts that held him pinned, grunting; no blood 
followed; the slave crouched down, unscathed but incapacitated by his fear. "Come as a free man, 
then, and talk to us. We won't hurt you, boy. Talk and you can go." 

Niko, then, intruded, his prisoner beside him, his horse following close behind. "Let them go, 
Crit." 

"What? Niko, forget the game, tonight. They'll not live to tell you helped us. We've been needing 
this advantage too long" 

"Let them go, Crit." Beside him his prisoner cursed or hissed or intoned a spell, but did not 
break to run. Niko stepped close to his task force leader, whispering: "This one's an ex-commando, 
a fighter from Wizardwall come upon hard times. Do him a service, as I must, for services done." 

"Nisibisi? More's the reason, then, to take them and break them" 

"No. He's on the other side from warlocks; he'll do us more good free in the streets. Won't you, 
Vis?" 

The foreign-looking ruffian agreed, his voice thick with an accent detectable even in his three 
clipped syllables. 

Niko nodded. "See, Crit? This is Vis. Vis, this is Crit. I'll be the contact for his reports. Go on, 
now. You, too, freedman, go. Run!" 

And the two, taking Niko at his word, dashed away before Crit could object. 

The third, in Straton's grasp, writhed wildly. This was a failed hawkmask, very likely, in 
Straton's estimation the prize of the three and one no word from Niko could make the mercenary 
loose. 

Niko agreed that he'd not try to save any of Jubal's minions, and that was that almost. They 
had to keep their meeting brief; anyone could be peeking out from windowsill or shadowed door, 
but as they mounted up to ride away, Janni saw a cowled figure rising from a pool of darkness 
occluding the intersection. It stood, full up, momentarily, and moonrays struck its face. Janni 
shuddered; it was a face with hellish eyes, too far to be so big or so frightening, yet their met glance 
shocked him like icy water and made his limbs to shake. 

"Stealth! Did you see that?" 


"What?" Niko snapped, defensive over interfering in Grit's operation. "See what?" 

"What?" Niko snapped, defensive over interfering in Grit's operation. "See what?" 

"Show me where, and tell me what." 

Janni swung up on his mount and led the way; when they got there, they found a crumpled body, 
a youth with bloated tongue outstuck and rolled up eyes as if a fit had taken him, dead as Abarsis in 
the street. "Oh, no..." Niko, dismounted, rolled the corpse. "It's one of Tamzen's friends." The 
silk-and-linened body came clearer as Janni's eyes accustomed themselves to moonlight after the 
glare of the torch. They heaved the corpse up upon Janni's horse who snorted to bear a dead thing 
but forbore to refuse outright. "Let's take it somewhere, Stealth. We can't carry it about all night." 
Only then did Janni remember they'd failed to report to Crit their evening's plan. 

At his insistence, Niko agreed to ride by the Shambles Cross safe haven, caulked and shuttered 
in iron, where Stepsons and street men and Ilsig/Rankan garrison personnel, engaged in chasing 
hawkmasks and other covert enterprise, made their slum reports in situ. 

They managed to leave the body there, but not to alert the task force leader; Crit had taken the 
hawkmask wherever he thought the catch would serve them best; nothing was in the room but the 
interrogation wheel and bags of lime to tie on unlucky noses and truncheons of sailcloth filled with 
gravel and iron filings to change the most steadfast heart. They left a note, carefully coded, and 
hurried back onto the street. Niko's brow was furrowed, and Janni, too, was in a hurry to see if 
they might find Tamzen and her friends as a living group, not one by one, cold corpses in the gutter. 

The witch Roxane had house snakes, a pair brought down from Nisibis, green and six feet long, 
each one. She brought them into her study and set their baskets by the hearth. Then, bowl of water 
by her side, she spoke the words that turned them into men. The facsimiles aped a pair of Stepsons; 
she got them clothes and sent them off. Then she took the water bowl and stirred it with her finger 
until a whirlpool sucked and writhed. This she spoke over, and out to sea beyond the harbor a like 
disturbance began to rage. She took from her table six carven ships with Beysib sails, small and 
filled with wax miniatures of men. These she launched into the basin with its whirlpool and spun and 
spun her finger round until the flagships of the fleet foundered, then were sunk and sucked to lie at 
last upon the bottom of the bowl. Even after she withdrew her finger the water raged awhile. The 
witch looked calmly into her maelstrom and nodded once, content. The diversion would be timely; 
the moon, outside her window, was nearly high, scant hours from its zenith. 

Then it was time to take Jagat's report and send the death squadsor dead squads, for none of 
those who served in them had life of their own to leadinto town. 

* * * 

Tamzen's heart was pounding, her mouth dry and her lungs burning. They had run a long way. 
They were lost, and all six knew it; Phryne was weeping and her sister was shaking and crying she 
couldn't run, her knees wouldn't hold her; the three boys left were talking loud and telling all how 
they'd get home if they just stayed in a groupthe girls had no need to fear. More krrf was shared, 
though it made things worse, not better, so that a toothless crone who tapped her stick and 
smacked her gums sent them flying through the streets. 

No one talked about Mehta's fate; they'd seen him with the dark-clad whore, seen him 
mesmerized, seen him take her hand. They'd hid until the pair walked on, then followed the group 
had sworn to stay together, wicked adventure on their minds; all were officially adults now; none 
could keep them from the forbidden pleasures of men and womento see if Mehta would really lay 
the whore, thinking they'd regroup right after, and find out what fun he'd had. 

They'd seen him fall, and gag, and die once he'd raised her skirts and had her, his buttocks 


thrusting hard as he pinned her to the alley wall. They'd seen her bend down over him and raise her 
head and the glowing twin hells there had sent them pell-mell, fleeing what they knew was no human 
whore. 

thrusting hard as he pinned her to the alley wall. They'd seen her bend down over him and raise her 
head and the glowing twin hells there had sent them pell-mell, fleeing what they knew was no human 
whore. 

"It's safe here, then?" Tamzen blurted, her teeth chattering but the knf making her bold and 
angry. She strode ahead, not waiting to see them follow; they would; she knew this bunch better 
than their mothers. The thing to do, she was sure, was to stride bravely on until they came upon the 
Square and found the streets home, or came upon some Hell Hounds, palace soldiers, or Stepsons. 
Niko's friends would ride them home on horseback if they found some; Tamzen's acquaintance 
among the men of iron was her fondest prize. 

Niko If he were here, she'd have no fear, nor need to pretend to valor Her eyes filled with 
tears, thinking what he'd say when he heard. She was never going to convince him she was grown if 
all her attempts to do so made her seem the more a child. A child's error, this, for sure and one 
dead on her account. Her father would beat her rump to blue and he'd keep her in her room for a 
month. She began to fret the knf's doing, though she was too far gone in the drug's sway to 
telland saw an alley from which torchlight shone. She took it; the others followed, she heard them 
close behind. They had money aplenty; they would hire an escort, perhaps with a wagon, to take 
them home. All taverns had men looking for hire in them; if they chanced Caravan Square, and fell 
afoul of slavers, she'd never see her poppa or Niko or her room filled with stuffed toys and ruffles 
again. 

The inn was called the Sow's Ear, and it was foul. In its doorway, one of the boys, panting, 
caught her arm and jerked her back. "Show money in that place, and you'll get all our throats slit 
quick." 

He was right. They huddled in the street and sniffed more knf and shook and argued. Phryne 
began to wail aloud and her sister stopped her mouth with a clapped hand. Just as the two girls, 
terrified and defeated, crouched down in the street and one of the boys, his bladder loosed by fear, 
sought a corner wall, a woman appeared before them, her hood thrown back, her face hidden by a 
trick of light. But the voice was a gentlewoman's voice and the words were compassionate. "Lost, 
children? There, there, it's all right now, just come with me. We'll have mulled wine and pastries and 
I'll have my man form an escort to see you home. You're the Alekeep owner's daughter, if I'm right? 
Ah, good, then; your father's a friend of my husband surely you remember me?" 

She gave a name and Tamzen, her sense swimming in drugs and her heart filled with relief and 
the sweet taste of salvation, lied and said she did. AH six went along with the woman, skirting the 
square until they came to a curious house behind a high gate, well lit and gardened and full of 
chaotic splendor. At its rear, the rush of the White Foal could be heard. 

"Now, sit, sit, little ones. Who needs to wash off the street grime? Who needs a pot?" The 
rooms were shadowed, no longer well lit; the woman's eyes were comforting, calming like sedative 
draughts for sleepless nights. They sat among the silks and the carven chairs and they drank what 
she offered and began to giggle. Phryne went and washed, and her sister and Tamzen followed. 
When they came back, the boys were nowhere in sight. Tamzen was just going to ask about that 
when the woman offered fruit, and somehow she forgot the words on her tongue-tip, and even that 
the boys had been there at all, so fine was the krrf the woman smoked with them. She knew she'd 
remember in a bit, though, whatever it was she'd forgot... 

* * * 


When Crit and Straton arrived with the hawkmask they'd captured at the Foalside home of 
Ischade, the vampire woman, all its lights were on, it seemed, yet little of that radiance cut the 
gloom. 

When Crit and Straton arrived with the hawkmask they'd captured at the Foalside home of 
Ischade, the vampire woman, all its lights were on, it seemed, yet little of that radiance cut the 
gloom. 

"Don't ask me, Straton, what his reasons are; I don't know. Something about the one being of 
that Successors band, revolutionaries who want Wizardwall back from the Nisibisi magesthere's 
more to Nisibis than the warlocks. If that Vis was one, then he's an outlaw as far as Nisibisi law 
goes, and maybe a fighter. So we let him go, do him a favor, see if maybe he'll come to us, do us a 
service in his turn. But as for the otheryou saw Ischade's writ of freedomwe gave him to her 
and she let him go. If we want to use her if she'll ever help us find Jubal...and she does know 
where he is; this freeing of the slave was a message: she's telling us we've got to up the antewe've 
got to honor her wishes as far as this slave-bait goes." 

"But this coming here ourselves? You know what she can do to a man..." 

"Maybe we'll like it; maybe it's time to die. I don't know. I do know we can't leave it to the 
garrisonevery time they find us a hawkmask he's too damaged to tell us anything. We'll never 
recruit what's left of them if the army keeps killing them slowly, and we take the blame. And also," 
Crit paused, dismounted his horse, pulled the trussed and gagged hawkmask he had slung over his 
saddle like a haunch of meat down after him, so that the prisoner fell heavily to the ground, "we've 
been told by the garrison's intelligence liaison that the army thinks Stepsons fear this woman." 

"Anybody with a dram of common sense would." Straton, rubbing his eyes, dismounted also, 
notched crossbow held at the ready as soon as his feet touched the ground. 

"They don't mean that. You know what they mean; they can't tell a Sacred Bander from a 
straight mercenary. They think we're all sodomizers and sneer at us for that." 

"Let 'em. I'd rather be alive and misunderstood than dead and respected." Straton blinked, 
trying to clear his blurred vision. It was remarkable that Critias would undertake this action on his 
own; he wasn't supposed to take part in field actions, but command them. Tempus had been to see 
him, though, and since then the task force leader had been more taciturn and even more impatient 
than usual. Straton knew there was no use in arguing with Critias, but he was one of the few who 
could claim the privilege of voicing his opinion to the leader, even when they disagreed. 

They'd interrogated the hawkmask briefly; it didn't take long; Straton was a specialist in exactly 
that. He was a pretty one, and substantively undamaged. The vampire was discerning, loved beauty; 
she'd taken to this one, the few bruises on him might well make him more attractive to a creature 
such as she: not only would she have him in her power but it would be in her power to save him 
from a much worse death than that she'd give. By the look of the tall, lithe hawkmask, by his clothes 
and his pinched face in which sensitive, liquid eyes roamed furtively, a pleasant death would be 
welcome. His ilk were hunted by more factions in Sanctuary than any but Nisibisi spies. 

Crit said, "Ready, Strat?" 

"I own I'm not, but I'll pretend if you do. If you get through this and I don't, my horses are 
yours." 

"And mine, yours." Crit bared his teeth. "But I don't expect that to happen. She's reasonable, 
I'm wagering. She couldn't have turned that slave loose that way if she wasn't in control of her lust. 
And she's smartsmarter than Kadakithis' so-called 'intelligence staff," or Hell Hounds, we've seen 
that for a fact." 

So, despite sane cautions, they unlatched the gate, their horses drop-tied behind them, cut the 


hawkmask's ankle bonds and walked him to the door. His eyes went wide above his gag, pupils 
gigantic in the torchlight on her threshold, then squeezed shut as Ischade herself came to greet them 
when, after knocking thrice and waiting long, they were about to turn away, convinced she wasn't 
home after all. 

hawkmask's ankle bonds and walked him to the door. His eyes went wide above his gag, pupils 
gigantic in the torchlight on her threshold, then squeezed shut as Ischade herself came to greet them 
when, after knocking thrice and waiting long, they were about to turn away, convinced she wasn't 
home after all. 

"Good evening, madam. We thought the time had come to meet, face to face. We've brought 
you this gift, a token of our good will." He spoke blandly, matter-of-factly, letting her know they 
knew all about her and didn't really care what she did to the unwary or the unfortunate. Straton's 
mouth dried and his tongue stuck to the roof of it. None was colder than Crit, or more tenacious 
when work was under way. 

The woman, Ischade, dusky-skinned but not the ruddy tone of Nisibis, an olive cast that made 
the whites of her teeth and eyes very bright, bade them enter. "Bring him in, then, and we'll see what 
can be seen." 

"No, no. We'll leave himan article of faith. We'd like to know what you hear of Jubal, or his 
bandwhereabouts, that sort of thing. If you come to think of any such information, you can find 
me at the mercenaries' hostel." 

"Or in your hidey-hole in Shambles Cross?" 

"Sometimes." Crit stood firm. Straton, his relief a flood, now that he knew they weren't going in 
there, gave the hawk-mask a shove. "Go on, boy, go to your mistress." 

"A slave, then, is this one?" she asked Strat and that glance chilled his soul when it fixed on him. 
He'd seen butchers look at sheep like that. He half expected her to reach out and tweak his biceps. 

He said: "What you wish, he is." 

She said: "And you?" 

Crit said: "Forbearance has its limits." 

She replied: "Yours, perhaps, not mine. Take him with you; I want him not. What you Stepsons 
think of me, I shall not even ask. But cheap, I shall never come." 

Crit loosed his hold on the youth, who wriggled then, but Straton held him, thinking that Ischade 
was without doubt the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and the hawkmask was luckier than 
most. If death was the gateway to heaven, she was the sort of gatekeep he'd like to admit him, 
when his time came. 

She remarked, though he had not spoken aloud, that such could easily be arranged. 

Crit, at that, looked between them, then shook his head. "Go wait with the horses, Straton. I 
thought I heard them, just now." 

So Straton never did find out exactly what wasor was notarranged between his task force 
leader and the vampire woman, but when he reached the horses, he had his hands full calming them, 
as if his own had scented Niko's black, whom his gray detested above all other studs. When they'd 
both been stabled in the same barn, the din had been terrible, and stall-boards shattered as regularly 
as stalls were mucked, from those two trying to get at each other. Horses, like men, love and hate, 
and those two stallions wanted a piece of each other the way Strat wanted a chance at the garrison 
commander or Vashanka at the Wrigglies' Ds. 

Soon after, Crit came sauntering down the walk, unscathed, alone, and silent. 


Straton wanted to ask, but did not, what had been arranged: his leader's sour expression 
warned him off. And an hour later, at the Shambles Cross safe haven, when one of the street men 
came running in saying there was a disturbance and Tempus could not be found, so Crit would have 
to come, it was too late. 

Straton wanted to ask, but did not, what had been arranged: his leader's sour expression 
warned him off. And an hour later, at the Shambles Cross safe haven, when one of the street men 
came running in saying there was a disturbance and Tempus could not be found, so Crit would have 
to come, it was too late. 

* * * 

When Straton and Crit had ridden away, Niko eased his black out from hiding. The spirit-track 
he'd followed had led them here; Tamzen and the others were inside. The spoor met up with the 
pale blue traces of the house's owner near the Sow's Ear and did not separate thereafter. Blue was 
no human's color, unless that human was an enchanter, a witch, accursed or charmed. Both Niko 
and Janni knew whose house this was, but what Crit and Straton were doing here, neither wanted 
to guess or say. 

"We can't rush the place, Stealth. You know what she is." 

"I know." 

"Why didn't you let me hail them? Four would be better than two, for this problem's solving." 

"Whatever they're doing here, I don't want to know about. And we've broken cover as it is 
tonight." Niko crooked a leg over his horse's neck, cavalry style. Janni rolled a smoke and offered 
him one; he took it and lit it with a flint from his belt pouch just as two men with a wagon came 
driving up from Downwind, wheels and hooves thundering across the White Foal's bridge. 

"Too much traffic," Janni muttered, as they pulled their horses back into shadows and watched 
the men stop their team before the odd home's door; the wagon was screened and curtained; if 
someone was within, it was impossible to tell. 

The men went in and when they came out they had three smallish people with them swathed in 
robes and hooded. These were put into the carriage, and it then drove away, turning onto the 
cart-track leading south from the bridgethere was nothing down there but swamp and wasteland, 
and at the end of it, Fisherman's Row and the sea nothing, that is, but the witch Roxane's fortified 
estate. 

"Do you thinkStealth, was that them?" 

"Quiet, curse you; I'm trying to tell." It might have been; his heart was far from quiet, and the 
passengers, he sensed, were drugged and nearly somnambulent. 

But from the house, he could no longer sense the girlish trails which had been there, among the 
blue/archmagical/ anguished ones of its owner and those of men. Boys' auras still remained there, he 
thought, but quiet, weaker, perhaps dying, maybe dead. It could be the fellow Crit had left there, 
and not the young scions of east side homes. 

The moon, above Niko's head, was near at zenith. Seeing him look up, Janni anticipated what 
he was going to say: "Well, Stealth, we've got to go down there anyway; let's follow the wagon. 
Mayhap we'll catch it. Perchance we'll find out whom they've got there, if we do. And we've little 
time to lose girls or no, we've a witch to attend to." 

"Aye." Niko reined his horse around and set it at a lope after the wagon, not fast enough to 
catch it too soon, but fast enough to keep it in earshot. When Janni's horse came up beside his, the 
other mercenary called: "Convenience of this magnitude makes me nervous; you'd think the witch 
sent that wagon, even snared those children, to be sure we'd have to come." 

Janni was right; Niko said nothing; they were committed; there was nothing to do but follow; 
whatever was going to happen was well upon them, now. 


* * * 

* * * 

Now he struggled, helpless in his bonds, trying to clear his vision and will his pain away. 

Before him he saw figures, a bonfire limning silhouettes. Among them, as consciousness came 
full upon him and he began to wish he'd never waked, was Tamzen, struggling in grisly embraces 
and wailing out his name, and the other girls, and Janni, spreadeagled, staked out on the ground, his 
mouth open, screaming at the sky. 

"Ah," he heard, "Nikodemos. So kind of you to join us." 

Then a woman's face swam before him, beautiful, though that just made it worse. It was the 
Nisibisi witch, and she was smiling, itself an awful sign. A score of minions ringed her, creatures 
roused from graves, and two with ophidian eyes and lipless mouths whose skins had a greenish 
cast. 

She began to tell him softly the things she wished to know. For a time he only shook his head 
and closed his ears and tried to flee his flesh. If he could retire his mind to his rest-place, he could 
ignore it all; the pain, the screams which split the night; he would know none of what occurred here, 
and die without the shame of capitulation: she'd kill him anyway, when she was done. So he counted 
determinedly backward, eyes squeezed shut, envisioning the runes which would save him. But 
Tamzen's screams, her sobs to him for help, and Janni's animal anguish, kept interfering, and he 
could not reach the quiet place and stay: he kept being dragged back by the sounds. 

Still, when she asked him questions, he only stared back at her in silence: Tempus' plans and 
state of mind were things he knew little of; he couldn't have stopped this if he'd wanted to; he didn't 
know enough. But when at length, knowing it, he closed his eyes again, she came up close and 
pried them open, impaling his lids with wooden splinters so that he would see what made Janni cry. 

They had staked the Stepson over a wild creature's burrow a badger, he later saw, when it 
had gnawed and clawed its way to freedomand were smoking the rodent out by setting fire to its 
tunnel. When Janni's stomach began to show the outline of the animal within, Niko, capitulating, told 
all he knew and made up more besides. 

By then the girls had long since been silenced. 

All he heard was the witch's voice; all he remembered was the horror of her eyes and the 
message she bade him give to Tempus, and that when he had repeated it, she pulled the splinters 
from his lids The darkness she allowed him became complete, and he found a danker rest-place 
than meditation's quiet cave. 

* * * 

In Roxane's "manor house" commotion raged; slaves went running, and men cried orders, and in 
the court the caravan was being readied to make away. 

She herself sat petulant and wroth, among the brocades of her study and the implements of her 


craft: water and fire and earth and air, and minerals and plants, and a globe sculpted from high 
peaks clay with precious stones inset. 

craft: water and fire and earth and air, and minerals and plants, and a globe sculpted from high 
peaks clay with precious stones inset. 

She sat, and Niko, in a corner, propped up but not awake, breathed raspingly: another 
errorthose damn snakes took everything too literally, as well as being incapable of following 
simple orders to their completion. 

The snakes she'd sent out, charmed to look like Stepsons, should have found the children in the 
streets; as Niko and Janni, their disguises were complete. But a vampire bitch, a cursed and 
accursed third-rater possessed of meager spells, had chanced upon the quarry and taken it home. 
Then she'd had to change all plans and make the wagon and send the snakes to retrieve the 
baitthe girls alone, the boys were expendableand snakes were not up to fooling women grown 
and knowledgeable of spells. Ischade had given up her female prizes, rather than confront Nisibisi 
magic, pretending for her own sake that she believed the "Stepsons" who came to claim Tamzen 
and her friends. 

Had Roxane not been leaving town this evening, she'd have had to wipe the vampire's soulor 
at least her memory away. 

So she took the snakes out once more from their baskets and held their heads up to her face. 
Tongues darted out and reptilian eyes pled mercy, but Roxane had forgotten mercy long ago. And 
strength was what she needed, which in part these had helped to drain away. Holding them high she 
picked herself up and speaking words of power took them both and cast them in the blazing hearth. 
The flames roared up and snakes writhed in agony, and roasted. When they were done she fetched 
them out with silver tongs and ate their tails and heads. 

Thus fortified, she turned to Niko, still hiding mind and soul in his precious mental refuge, a 
version of it she'd altered when her magic saw it. This place of peace and perfect relaxation, a cave 
behind the meadow of his mind, had a ghost in it, a friend who loved him. In its guise she'd spoken 
long to him and gained his spirit's trust. He was hers, now, as her lover-lord had promised; all things 
he learned she'd know as soon as he. None of it he'd remember, just go about his business of war 
and death. Through him she'd herd Tempus whither she willed, and through him she'd know the 
Riddler's every plan. 

For Nikodemos, the Nisibisi bondservant, had never shed his brand or slipped his chains: 
though her lover had freed his body, deep within his soul a string was tied. Any time, her lord could 
pull it; and she, too, now, had it twined around her pinky. 

He remembered none of what occurred after his interrogation in the grove; he recalled just what 
she pleased and nothing more. Oh, he'd think he'd dreamed delirious nightmares, as he sweated 
now to feel her touch. 

She woke him with a tap upon his eyes and told him what he was: her pawn, her tool, even that 
he would not recall their little talk or coming here. And she warned him of undeads, and shriveled 
his soul when she showed him, in her mirror-eyes, what Tamzen and her friend could be, should he 
even remember what passed between them here. 

Then she put her pleasure by and touched the bruised and battered face: one more thing she 
took from him, to show his spirit who was slave and who was master. She had him service her and 
took strength from his swollen mouth and then, with a laugh, made him forget it all. 

Then she sent her servant forth, unwitting, the extra satisfactiongleaned from knowing that his 


spirit knew, and deep within him cried and struggledgiving the whole endeavor spice. 

spirit knew, and deep within him cried and struggledgiving the whole endeavor spice. 

And Roxane, for a time, was free to quit this scrofulous town and wend her way northward: she 
might be back, but for the nonce the journey to her lord's embrace was all she craved. They'd leave 
a trail well marked in place and plane for Tempus; she'd lie in high-peaks splendor, with her 
lover-lord well pleased by what she'd brought him: some Stepsons, and a Froth Daughter, and a 
man the gods immortalized. 

* * * 

In took until nearly dawn to calm the fish-faces who'd lost their five best ships; "lucky" for 
everyone that the Burek faction's nobility had been enjoying Kadakithis's hospitality, ensconced in 
the summer palace on the lighthouse spit and not aboard when the ships snapped anchor and 
headed like creatures with wills of their own toward the maelstrom that had opened at the harbor's 
mouth. 

Crit, through all, was taciturn; he was not supposed to surface; Tempus, when found, would not 
be pleased. But Kadakithis needed counsel badly; the young prince would give away his Imperial 
curls for "harmonious relations with our fellows from across the sea." 

Nobody could prove that this was other than a natural disaster; an "act of gods" was the 
unfortunate turn of phrase. 

When at last Crit and Strat had done with the dicey process of standing around looking 
inconsequential while in fact, by handsign and courier, they mitigated Kadakithis's bent to 
compromise (for which there was no need except in the Beysib matriarch's mind), they retired from 
the dockside. 

Crit wanted to get drunk, as drunk as humanly possible: helping the mageguild defend its 
innocence, when like as not some mage or other had called the storm, was more than distasteful; it 
was counterproductive. As far as Critias was concerned, the newly elected First Hazard ought to 
step forward and take responsibility for his guild's malevolent mischief. When frogs fell from the sky, 
Straton prognosticated, such would be the case. 

They'd done some good there: they'd conscripted Wrigglies and deputized fishermen and bullied 
the garrison duty officer into sending some of his men out with the long boats and Beysib dinghies 
and slave-powered tenders which searched shoals and coastline for survivors. But with the 
confusion of healers and thrill-seeking civilians and boat owners and Beysibs on the docks, they'd 
had to call in all the Stepsons and troops from road patrols and country posts in case the Beysibs 
took their loss too much to heart and turned upon the townsfolk. 

On every corner, now, a mounted pair stood watch; beyond, the roads were desolate, 
unguarded. Crit worried that if diversion were some culprit's purpose, it had worked all too well: an 
army headed south would be upon them with no warning. If he'd not known that yesterday there'd 
been no sign of southward troop movement, he confided to Straton, he'd be sure some such evil 
was afoot. 

To make things worse, when they found an open bar it was the Alekeep, and its owner was 
wringing his hands in a corner with five other upscale fathers. Their sons and daughters had been out 
all night; word to Tempus at the Stepsons' barracks had brought no answer; the skeleton crew at 
the garrison had more urgent things to do than attend to demands for search parties when 
manpower was suddenly at a premium; the fathers sat awaiting their own men's return and thus had 
kept the Alekeep's graveyard shift from closing. 


They got out of there as soon as politic, weary as their horses and squinting in the lightening 
dark. 

They got out of there as soon as politic, weary as their horses and squinting in the lightening 
dark. 

"Why wouldn't the old barkeep have told us that he'd set them on his daughter's trail?" Strat 
sighed, rubbing his eyes with his palms. 

"Niko's legend says he's defected to the slums, remember?" Crit was shrugging into his chiton, 
which he'd just tugged off and thrown upon the floor. 

"We're not going back out." 

"I am." 

"To look for Niko? Where?" 

"Niko and Janni. And I don't know where. But if that pair hasn't turned up those youngsters 
yet, it's no simple adolescent prank or graduation romp. Let's hope it's just that their meet with 
Roxane took precedence and it's inopportune for them to leave her." Crit stood. 

Straton didn't. 

"Coming?" Crit asked. 

"Somebody should be where authority is expected to be found. You should be here or at the 

hostel, not chasing after someone who might be chasing after you." 

So in the end, Straton won that battle and they went up to the hostel, stopping, since the sun had 
risen, at Marc's to pick up Straton's case of flights along the way. 

The shop's door was ajar, though the opening hour painted on it hadn't come yet. Inside, the 
smith was hunched over a mug of tea, a crossbow's trigger mechanism dismantled before him on a 
split of suede, scowling at the crossbow's guts spread upon his counter as if at a recalcitrant child. 

He looked up when they entered, wished them a better morning than he'd had so far this day, 

and went to get Straton's case of flights. 

Behind the counter an assortment of high-torque bows was hung. 

When Marc returned with the wooden case, Straton pointed: "That's Niko's, isn't itor are my 

eyes that bad?" 

"I'm holding it for him, until he pays," explained the smith with the unflinching gaze. 

"We'll pay for it now, and he can pick it up from me," Crit said. 

"I don't know if he'd" Marc, half into someone else's business, stepped back out of it with a 

nod of head: "All right, then, if you want. I'll tell him you've got it. That's four soldats, three I've 
done a lot of work on it for him. Shall I tell him to seek you at the guild hostel?" 

"Thereabouts." 

Taking it down from the wall, the smith wound and levered, then dry-fired the crossbow, its 
mechanism to his ear. A smile came over his face at what he heard. "Good enough, then," he 
declared and wrapped it in its case of padded hide. 

This way, Straton realized, Niko would come direct to Crit and report when Marc told him 
what they'd done. 
* * * 


By the time dawn had cracked the world's egg, Tempus as well as Jihan was sated, even tired. 
For a man who chased sleep like other men chased power or women, it was wondrous that this 
was so. For a being only recently become woman, it was a triumph. They walked back toward the 
Stepsons' barracks, following the creekbed, all pink and gold in sunrise, content and even playful, 
his chuckle and her occasional laugh startling sleepy squirrels and flushing birds from their nests. 

By the time dawn had cracked the world's egg, Tempus as well as Jihan was sated, even tired. 
For a man who chased sleep like other men chased power or women, it was wondrous that this 
was so. For a being only recently become woman, it was a triumph. They walked back toward the 
Stepsons' barracks, following the creekbed, all pink and gold in sunrise, content and even playful, 
his chuckle and her occasional laugh startling sleepy squirrels and flushing birds from their nests. 

He'd spoken openly to her of his affliction, reminding her that those who loved him died by 
violence, and those he loved were bound to spurn him, and what that could mean in the case of his 
Stepsons, and herself, if Vashanka's power did not return to mitigate his curse. He'd told her of his 
plea to Enlil, an ancient deity of universal scope, and that he awaited godsign. 

She'd been relieved at that, afraid, she admitted, that the lord of dreams might tempt him from 
her side. For when Akelon the dream lord had come to take Tempus' sister off to his metaphysical 
kingdom of delights, he'd offered the brother the boon of mortality. Now that she'd just found him, 
Jihan had added throatily, she could not bear it if he chose to die. 

And she'd spent that evening proving to Tempus that it might be well to stay alive with her, who 
loved life the more for having only just begun it, and yet could not succumb to mortal death or be 
placed in mortal danger by his curse, his strength, or whatever he might do. 

The high moon had laved them, and her legs had embraced him, and her red-glowing eyes like 
her father's had transfixed him while her cool flesh enflamed him. Yes, with Jihan beside him, he'd 
swallow his pride and his pique and give even Sanctuary's Kadakithis the benefit of the doubthe'd 
stay though his heart tugged him northward, although he'd thought, when he took her to their 
creekbed bower, to chase her away. 

When they'd slipped into his barracks quarters from the back, he was no longer so certain. He 
heard from a lieutenant all about the waterspouts and whirlpools, thinking while the man talked that 
this was his godsign, however obscure its meaning, and then he regretted having made an 
accommodation with the Froth Daughter: all his angst came back upon him, and he wished he'd 
hugged his resolve firmly to his breast and driven Jihan hence. 

But when the disturbance at the outer gates penetrated to the slaver's old apartments which he 
had made his own, rousting them out to seek its cause, he was glad enough she'd remained. 

The two of them had to shoulder their way through the gathered crowd of Stepsons, astir with 
bitter mutters; no one made way for them; none had come to their commander's billet with news of 
what had been brought up to the gatehouse in the dawn. 

He heard a harsh whisper from a Stepson too angry to be careful, wondering if Tempus had sent 
Janni's team deliberately to destruction because Stealth had rejected the Riddler's offered pairbond. 

One who knew better answered sagely that this was a Mygdonian message, a Nisibisi warning 
of some antiquity, and he had heard it straight from Stealth's broken lips. 

"What did that?" Jihan moaned, bending low over Janni's remains. Tempus did not answer her 
but said generally: "And Niko?" and followed a man who headed off toward the whitewashed 
barracks, hearing as he went a voice choked with grief explaining to Jihan what happens when you 
tie a man spread-eagled over an animal's burrow and smoke the creature out. 


The Stepson guiding him to where Niko lay said that the man who'd brought them wished to 
speak to Tempus. "Let him wait for his reward," Tempus snapped, and questioned the mercenary 
about the Samaritan who'd delivered the two Stepsons home. But the Sacred Bander had gotten 
nothing from the stranger who'd rapped upon the gates and braved the angry sentries who almost 
killed him when they saw what burden he'd brought in. The stranger would say only that he must 
wait for Tempus. 

The Stepson guiding him to where Niko lay said that the man who'd brought them wished to 
speak to Tempus. "Let him wait for his reward," Tempus snapped, and questioned the mercenary 
about the Samaritan who'd delivered the two Stepsons home. But the Sacred Bander had gotten 
nothing from the stranger who'd rapped upon the gates and braved the angry sentries who almost 
killed him when they saw what burden he'd brought in. The stranger would say only that he must 
wait for Tempus. 

Quite soon he heard from Nikodemos, concisely but through a slur that comes when teeth have 
been loosed or broken in a dislocated jaw, what had transpired: they had gone seeking the Alekeep 
owner's daughter, deep into Shambles where drug dens and cheap whores promise dreamless 
nights, found them at Ischade's, seen them hustled into a wagon and driven away toward Roxane's. 
Following, for they were due to see the witch at high moon in her lair in any case, they'd been 
accosted, surprised by a death squad armed with magic and visaged like the dead, roped and 
dragged from their horses. The next lucid interval Niko recalled was one of being propped against 
dense trees, tied to one while the Nisibisi witch used children's plights and spells and finally Janni's 
tortured drawn-out death to extract from him what little he knew of Tempus' intentions and Rankan 
strategies of defense for the lower land. "Was I wrong to try-not to tell them?" Niko asked, eyes 
swollen half-shut but filled with hurt. "I thought they'd kill us all, whatever. Then I thought I could 
hold out Tamzen and the other girls were past help but Janni" He shook his head. "Then 
they thought I was lying, when I couldn't answer questions they should have asked of you 
Then I did lie, to please them, but she the witch knew" 

"Never mind. Was One-Thumb a party to this?" A twitch of lips meant "no" or "I don't know." 
Then Niko found the strength to add: "If I hadn't tried to keep my silence I've been interrogated 
before by Nisibisi I hid in my rest-place until Janni They killed him to get to me." 

Tempus saw bright tears threatening to spill and changed the subject: "Your rest-place? So your 
maat returned to you?" 

He whispered, "After a fashion I don't care about that now. Going to need all my anger no 
time for balance anymore." 

Tempus blew out a breath and set down Niko's cup and looked between his legs at the packed 
clay floor. "I'm going north, tomorrow. I'll leave sortie assignments and schedules with Critiashe'll 
be in command hereand a rendezvous for those who want to join in settling up. Did you 
recognize any Ilsigs in her company? A servant, a menial, anyone at all?" 

"No, they all look alike Someone found us, got us to the gates. Some trainees of ours, 
maybethey knew my name. The witch said come ahead and die upcountry. Each reprisal of ours, 
they'll match fourfold." 

"Are you telling me not to go?" 

Niko struggled to sit up, cursed, fell back with blood oozing from between his teeth, Tempus 
made no move to help him. They stared at each other until Stealth said, "It will seem that you've 
been driven from Sanctuary, that you've failed here..." 

"Let it seem so, it may well be true." 

"Wait, then, until I can accompany" 


"You know better. I will leave instructions for you." He got up and left quickly, before his 
temper got the best of him where the boy could see. 

"You know better. I will leave instructions for you." He got up and left quickly, before his 
temper got the best of him where the boy could see. 

Then Tempus went to find Jihan. When he did, he asked her to put him in touch with Akelon, 
dream lord, if she could. 

"So that you can punish yourself with mortality? This is not your fault." 

"A kind, if unsound, opinion. Mortality will break the curse. Can you help me?" 

"I will not, not now, when you are like this," she replied, concern knitting her brows in the harsh 
morning light. "But I will accompany you north. Perhaps another day, when you are calmer" 

He cursed her for acting like a woman and set about scheduling sorties and sketching maps, so 
that each of his men would have worked out his debt to Kadakithis and be in good standing with 
the mercenaries' guild when and if they joined him in Tyse, at the very foot of Wizardwall. 

It took no longer to draft his resignation and Critias' appointment in his stead and send them off 
to Kadakithis than it took to clear his actions with the Rankan representatives of the mercenaries' 
guild: his task here (assessing Kadakithis for a Rankan faction desirous of a change in emperors) 
was accomplished; he could honestly say that neither town or townspeople nor effete prince was 
worth straggling to ennoble. For good measure he was willing to throw into the stewpot of disgust 
boiling in him both Vashanka and the child he had co-fathered with the god, by means of whom 
certain interests thought to hold him here: he disliked children, as a class, and even Vashanka had 
turned his back on this one. 

Still, there were things he had to do. He went and found Crit in the guild hostel's common room 
and told him all that had transpired. If Crit had refused the appointment outright, Tempus would 
have had to tarry, but Critias only smiled cynically, saying that he'd be along with his best fighters as 
soon as matters here allowed. He left One-Thumb's case in Critias's hands; they both knew that 
Straton could determine the degree of the barkeep's complicity quickly enough. 

Crit asked, as Tempus was leaving the dark and comforting common room for the last time, 
whether any children's bodies had been foundthree girls and boys still were missing; one young 
corpse had turned up cold in Shambles Cross. 

"No," Tempus said, and thought no more about it. "Life to you, Critias." 

"And to you, Riddler. And everlasting glory." 

Outside, Jihan was waiting on one Trs horse, the other's reins in her hand. 

They went first southwest to see if perhaps the witch or her agents might be found at home, but 
the manor house and its surrounds were deserted, the yard crisscrossed with cart-tracks from 
heavily laden wagons' wheels. 

The caravan's track was easy to follow. 

Riding north without a backward glance on his Trs horse, Jinan swaying in her saddle on his 
right, he had one last impulse: he ripped the problematical Storm God's amulet from around his 
throat, dropped it into a quaggy marsh. Where he was going, Vashanka's name was meaningless. 


Other names were hallowed, and other attributes given to the weather gods. 

Other names were hallowed, and other attributes given to the weather gods. 

* * * 

Crit sat long at his customary table in the common room after Tempus had gone. By rights it 
should have been Straton or some Sacred Band pair who succeeded Tempus, someone anyone 
but him. After a time he pulled out his pouch and emptied its contents onto the plank table: three tiny 
metal figures, a fishhook made from an eagle's claw and abalone shell, a single die, an old field 
decoration won in Azehur while the Slaughter Priest led the original Sacred Band. 

He scooped them up and threw them as a man might throw in wager: the little gold Storm God 
fell beneath the lead figurine of a fighter, propping the man upright; the fishhook embraced the die, 
which came to rest with one dot facing upStrat's war name was Ace. The third figure, a silver 
rider mounted, sat square atop the field starAbarsis had slipped it over his head so long ago the 
ribbon had crumbled away. 

Content with the omens his private prognosticators gave, he collected them and put them away. 
He'd wanted Tempus to ask him to join him, not hand him fifty men's lives to yea or nay. He took 
such work too much to heart; it lay heavy on him, worse than the task force's weight had been, and 
he'd only just begun. But that was why Tempus picked himhe was conscientious to a fault. 

He sighed and rose and quit the hostel, riding aimlessly through the fetid streets. Damned town 
was a pit, a bubo, a sore that wouldn't heal. He couldn't trust his task force to some subordinate, 
though how he was going to run them while stomping around vainly trying to fill Tempus' sandals, he 
couldn't say. 

His horse, picking his route, took him by the Vulgar Unicorn where Straton would soon be 
"discussing sensitive matters" with One-Thumb. 

By rights he should go up to the palace, pay a call on Kadakithis, "make nice" (as Straton said) 
to Vashanka's priest-of-record Molin, visit the mageguild He shook his head and spat over his 
horse's shoulder. He hated politics. 

And what Tempus had told him about Niko's misfortune and Janni's death still rankled. He 
remembered the foreign fighter Niko had made him turn looseVis. Vis, who'd come to Tempus, 
bearing hurt and slain, with a message from Jubal. That, and what Straton had gotten from the 
hawkmask they'd given Ischade, plus the vampire woman's own hints, allowed him to triangulate 
Jubal's position like a sailor navigating by the stars. Vis was supposed to come to him, though. He'd 
wait. If his hunch was right, he could put Jubal and his hawkmasks to work for Kadakithis without 
either knowingor at least having to admitthat was the case. 

If so, he'd be free to take the band northwhat they wanted, expected, and would now fret to 
do with Tempus gone. Only Tempus's mystique had kept them this long; Crit would have a mutiny, 
or empty barracks, if he couldn't meet their expectation of war to come. They weren't baby sitters, 
slum police, or palace praetorians; they collected exploits, not soldats. He began to form a plan, 
shape up a scenario, answer questions sure to be asked him later, rehearsing replies in his mind. 

Unguided, his horse led him slumwarda barn-rat, it was taking the quickest, straightest way 
home. When he looked up and out, rather than down and in, he was almost through the Shambles, 
near White Foal Bridge and the vampire's house, quiet now, unprepossessing in the light of day. Did 
she sleep in the day? He didn't think she was that kind of vampire; there had been no bloodless, no 
punctures on the boy stiff against the drop's back door when one of the street men found it. But 


what did she do, then, to her victims? He thought of Straton, the way he'd looked at the vampire, 
the exchange between the two he'd overheard and partly understood. He'd have to keep those two 
quite separate, even if Ischade was putatively willing to work with, rather than against, them. He 
spurred his horse on by. 

what did she do, then, to her victims? He thought of Straton, the way he'd looked at the vampire, 
the exchange between the two he'd overheard and partly understood. He'd have to keep those two 
quite separate, even if Ischade was putatively willing to work with, rather than against, them. He 
spurred his horse on by. 

Still, someone had to do it. And he'd have no trouble with the Sacred Band teams, who knew 
him in the old days, when he'd had a right-side partner, before that vulnerability was made painfully 
clear, and he gave up loving the death-seekersor anything else which could disappoint him. 

It mattered not a whit, he decided, if he won or if he lost, if they let him advise them or deserted 
post and duty to follow Tempus north, as he would have done if the sly old soldier hadn't bound him 
here with promise and responsibility. 

He'd brought Niko's bow. The first thing he didafter leaving the stables, where he saw to his 
horse and checked on Niko's pregnant marewas seek the wounded fighter. 

The young officer peered at him through swollen, blackened eyes, saw the bow and nodded, 
unlaced its case and stroked the wood recurve when Critias laid it on the bed. Half a dozen men 
were there when he'd knocked and enteredthree teams who'd come with Niko and his partner 
down to Ranke on Sacred Band business. They left, warning softly that Crit mustn't tire himthey'd 
just got him back. 

"He's left me the command," Crit said, though he'd thought to talk of hawkmasks and death 
squads and Nisibisia witch and one named Vis. 

"Gilgamesh sat by Enkidu seven days, until a maggot fell from his nose." It was the oldest legend 
the fighters shared, one from Enlil's time when the Lord Storm and Enid (Lord Earth) ruled the 
world, and a fighter and his friend roamed far. 

Crit shrugged and ran a spread hand through feathery hair. 

"Enkidu was dead; you're not. Tempus has just gone ahead to prepare our way." 

Niko rolled his head, propped against the whitewashed wall, until he could see Crit clearly: "He 
followed godsign; I know that look." 

"Or witchsign." Crit squinted, though the light was good, three windows wide and afternoon sun 
raying the room. "Are you all rightbeyond the obvious, I mean?" 

"I lost two partners, too close in time. I'll mend." 

Let's hope, Crit thought but didn't say, watching Niko's expressionless eyes. "I saw to your 
mare." 

"My thanks. And for the bow. Janni's bier is set for morning. Will you help me with it? Say the 
words?" 

Crit rose; the operator in him still couldn't bear to officiate in public, yet if he didn't, he'd never 
hold these men. "With pleasure. Life to you, Stepson." 

"And to you, commander." 

And that was that. His first test, passed; Niko and Tempus had shared a special bond. 

That night, he called them out behind the barracks, ordering a feast to be served on the training 
field, a wooden amphitheatre of sorts. By then Straton had come out to join him, and Strat wasn't 


bashful with the mess staff or the hired help. 

bashful with the mess staff or the hired help. 

He put it to them when all were well disposed from wine and roasted pig and lamb, standing and 
flatly telling them Tempus had left, putting them in his charge. There fell a silence and in it he could 
hear his heart pound. He'd been calmer ringed with Tysian hillmen, or alone, his partner slain, 
against a Rankan squadron. 

"Now, we've got each other, and for good and fair, I say to you, the quicker we quit this 
cesspool for the clean air of high peaks war, the happier I'll be." 

He could hardly see their faces in the dark with the torches snapping right before his face. But it 
didn't matter; they had to see him, not he them. Crit heard a raucous growl from fifty throats 
become assent, and then a cheer, and laughter, and Strat, beside and off a bit, gave him a soldier's 
sign: all's well. 

He raised a hand, and they fell quiet; it was a power he'd never tried before: "But the only way 
to leave with honor is to work your tours out." They grumbled. He continued: "The Riddler's left 
busy-work sorties enoughhazardous duty actions, by guild book rules; I'll post a listthat we 
can work off our debt to Kittycat in a month or so." 

Someone nay'd that. Someone else called: "Let him finish, then we'll have our say." 

"It means naught to me, who deserts to follow. But to us, to cadre honor, it's a slur. So I've 
thought about it, since I'm not to leave myself, and here's what I propose. All stay, or go. You take 
your vote. I'll wait. But Tempus wants no man on his right at Wizardwall who hasn't left in good 
standing with the guild." 

When they'd voted, with Straton overseeing the count, to abide by the rules they'd lived to 
enforce, he said honestly that he was glad about the choice they'd made. "Now I'm going to split 
you into units, and each unit has a choice: find a person, a mercenary not among us now, a warm 
body trained enough to hold a sword and fill your bed, and call him 'brother'long enough to 
induct him in your stead. Then we'll leave the town yet guarded by 'Stepsons' and that name's 
enough, with what we've done here, to keep the peace. The guild has provisions for man-steading; 
we'll collect from each to fill a pot to hire them; they'll billet here, and we'll ride north a unit at a time 
and meet up in Tyse, next high moon, and surprise the Riddler." So he put it to them, and so they 
agreed. 

Book Three: 
MAGEBLOOD 


On Wizardwall, those he favored called the archmage Datan; the rest knew him as the Osprey. 
Under that war name and its aegis, he wreaked his havoc, soaring over high peaks, predator to 
allthe adepts, the lesser mages, "mighty" enchanters, lowly sorcerers and fey magicians; of the 


secular populace of Nisibis, he thought little, if at all. 

secular populace of Nisibis, he thought little, if at all. 

Flying, transmogrified, northward on black eagle's wings whose span was twice her human 
height, she left the caravan far behind. Jagat would bring the spoils home; he'd never failed before. 
And now he led the caravan, leaving a scented trail the Tempus-fox would follow of his own 
accord. Her beaked head turned right and left, seeking prey along her way. Being eagle always 
made her crave warm blood and quivering loin and fur upon her tongue. 

In night flight, she was careful: mages fed upon mages; she was yet over Ranke, where a rival 
mageguild held vicious sway. Gods fought gods and magics, magics; she exulted, thinking there must 
be no finer time to be alive and abroad with power. She had no doubt who, when this was over, 
would have the final say. 

Towns below showed pastoral fires; the roads here were dotted with convoy lanterns; Rankan 
cities sprawled not far away. She veered northeast to skirt the capital and soared still higher, 
thinking of Datan and what he would say to the news she brought of theomachy and flouted gods, 
of entelechies and Stormbringer and a problematical demigod called Tempus. Some intelligence she 
bore might not be welcome; favorable assessment of an enemy seldom was. But she had learned so 
much from Nikodemosof Akelon, lord of dreams; of Abarsis, the Slaughter Priest who was in 
heaven; of the twelfth-plane force called Stormbringer in unearthly league and immortal collusion 
with the Riddler, and thus the Rankan foe... 

Approaching the Wall, she spiraled low after touching the stars to clear its shimmering barrier. 
She noticed changes in his abode, in the Wall itself. She alighted on his very rampart, and as she did 
an arrow whickered past, the whucka-whucka-whucka of its trajectory whispering in her 
feathered ear. Her eagle-squawk turned to a howl of rage as she half-changed form, sighting a 
mortal guard, a man with crossbow drawn. Her human finger pointed; power words leaped from 
her tongue. His crossbow clattered to the stone and a mouse ran into one boot it had just worn as a 
man. Back again in her eagle form she took wing and swooped and grabbed the boot, upending it 
as she bore it high. Then she dropped the shoe and caught the mouse, so recently a man, in her 
claws as it fell toward the ground far below. And, skewering it through its heart, she bore it back to 
Datan's crenelated high peak keep, and ate its innards upon his wall. As it died, it turned back to 
soldier, and as she fed she became a girl. 

Wiping her bloody mouth she paused just long enough to conjure robes to clothe her nakedness, 
and then a second guard came on the run. 

She waved him sleep, and he crumpled as he ran, landing sprawled between the wall's stone 
teeth, his weapon falling a thousand yards before it crashed. 

By then she'd changed her mind, unmade the robes, and soared: his palace was too crowded 
now with men and warlike toys. Circling high, she beat away his warding spells like cobwebs with 
her wings, and landed on his tower's very sill. 

Within the room, through colored panes of leaded glass, she saw him with three human allies, 
Mygdonians: a swaggering man, a general by his uniform, proud, fair-haired, festooned with arms 
and armor; a woman, pale and elegant; a boy. 

She pecked the lock and swung the windows inward at their joint. All ceased their conversation. 
She saw Datan's down-drawn frown and flickered out of view. What men should see or know she 
left to Datan's judgment; he came toward the windows, striding across in simple robes of black. 


She'd scrambled in, invisible, by the time he reached out to close the windows; he spoke no 
word of greeting but she saw his mouth twitchhe was amused. 

She'd scrambled in, invisible, by the time he reached out to close the windows; he spoke no 
word of greeting but she saw his mouth twitchhe was amused. 

"What in hell was that?" the general growled, his dagger drawn though even he must know he 
drew in vain. The woman, flaxen-haired and green-eyed, touched the general's arm and hustled the 
boy away, her fingers trailing from Datan's as the archmage kissed her hand. The tow-headed boy 
kept staring where she was, though no human could truly see her, his pale eyes wide and grayish as 
if he had a trace of Nisibisi blood. 

She thought on that, until they'd gone: when warlock or witch mates with a mortal, the eyes give 
all away. The last high-blooded coupling they'd recorded was when the Defender took the witches' 
queen to wife, three decades past when last men were ascendant, and the Defender's forces with 
Tempus's sanction climbed up Wizardwall. They hadn't won, but they'd gotten farther than mortals 
should have, and the sibyl had wed to consummate a pact of peace. The Defender, unknowing, 
signed his own empire's eradication warrant when he spread the legs of magic's queen. Abarsis had 
been their issue, and treachery among the army had led the officers to conspire to the mother's 
murder, lest their commander be a pawn of witchcraftdark vengeance had followed in good 
order, the destruction of his empire by Ranke, the gelding and enslavement of his son fair payment 
for the sibyl's life, once peace was declared and Tempus drifted away south to Ranke where war 
and blood could still be found. 

When the door closed upon the Mygdonians, the general last to leave, the archmage turned and 
welcomed her with outstretched arms, his mighty hairless head inclined: he'd missed her, sensitive 
lips kissed her, long lashes brushed her cheek. 

Datan's corpulence was apparent in any shape; his was a soul of appetites; his was a face of 
classic beauty, sensual amid the fat; his were hands to crush a world; his soul, if he still owned it, 
was second-mortgaged, loaned back to him by powers who could wait forever and pile up 
interestbut it was this weight of payment due which made his manner dark. He exacted all he 
could from life; he'd given up eternal peace for war and yet conquest could not sate him. 

Their embrace had heated up and her robes fallen by her feet when the door was pounded from 
without: a sentry with news of breached ramparts; the general back again bearing the eviscerated 
body of an elder son. 

It took a while to calm the father, clothes gory and already rent with Mygdonian grief. Datan 
hushed her when she would have stepped forward and claimed the killshe'd been attacked, done 
nothing wrong by fighting back. She flushed, and when the man was gone, she sat with folded arms 
upon his bedroom table and pouted: "Are we afraid, these days, of puny human ire?" 

"These are our allies, Roxane. Need I remind you?" Datan's tone, severe, caused her back to 
stiffen. Her robe, pulled round her hastily when the knock had come, fell open as she leaned back, 
stiff-armed. He glared at her and chilled her flesh: "As for fear, it has its place. I'd just as soon not 
contend with Mygdonian hordes screaming 'Lacan is great' and clambering over one another, dead 
and living, to be the next soul martyred in his cause. The time will come to trim his sails, but not yet; 
not 'til Ranke's a forgotten name. One clutch of gods and one of enemy mages is enough to deal 
withat a time. Do I make myself understood?" 

She nodded; one did not rile him. She smiled at him and commenced her report. He'd been 
immobile; now he paced: "Let me get this straight: your idea of neutralizing him was to lead him here 
? The Riddler? Witch, you've overstepped your mandate." 

"Not so, my lord. I held a conference here, with all your deputies, who gave me leave to act. 
Destroying him in his place was impossible; you know what he is" 


"I do. You, it seems, do not. What warlock suggested luring him north for battle?" 

"I do. You, it seems, do not. What warlock suggested luring him north for battle?" 

"No? Let's hope you're right, Roxane. I own I wish you'd abided there in Sanctuary as I 
commanded. I cannot leave these fools alone a week before they're stepping in their own 
excrement. You do know that his sister's with the dream lord? That Stormbringer's given him an 
own-daughter for a mate? That Lord Storm claims him as a true son? That under his aegis the 
Defender almost had me on a skewer the last time? You'll forgive me if I don't congratulate you on 
a job well done, or take you to my bed for this favor you've done the Alliance?" 

She had her pride: "Not until it turns out ill or well. I expect nothing untoward to come of this, 
Datan. I've controls on him, and I've placed them well." 

"How's that?" The archmage's lightless eyes rested full upon her. 

She shivered, but hid it well: "Nikodemos, the young bondservant. I invoked his spirit's debt and 
took him as my own. He'd be with Tempus now but for those damn snakes of yours, who couldn't 
follow simple orders, but beat him to a pulp. When he mends, he'll follow closely; when he catches 
up, we'll have a check on Tempus and a spy in his confidence. The Froth Daughter, Jinan, is 
helpless, lovestruck, and far too inexperienced in human ways to be a threat. And the Riddler 
himself is full of doubt: the Rankans think their god is dead. 

For a Storm God's favorite, this presents some few problems. Keep the god planelocked, and 
Tempus's curse will destroy him and all he loves no problem, lord, have I brought you, but a 
canny solution to all of ours." 

"Ah, my snakes. How are they? They're worth a clutch of Rankan factions, and the teetering 
emperor as well." 

She steered him from it: "The faction here that wanted to prop up Kadakithis enough to usurp 
the throne and depose the emperor, the same faction who hired Tempus in the first place and who 
petitioned the god to instruct the man to build a temple in the south, is losing heart. And, this the 
case, Tempus will never throw his weight behind the reigning Rankan lordhe knows the man's not 
worth a fart. Without the avatar's sanction, the Rankans war as men; men cannot stand against 
magic's" 

"I asked," her lover-lord broke in, "about my snakes. Where are they? Have you brought them? 
I sense a bit of them right here" 

And then she had to tell him what part of them his magic recognized, and where their remains 
now lived: "Stupid snakes, not worth your concern, or mine they almost aborted the venture in its 
most delicate phase No No! No!" 

But he wanted them back, and he would have them. And the way he called them from her belly 
caused her agony, indescribable pain. As it was just beginning, he froze her tongue so no curse 
could issue forth from it, then assured her that once he had them back, she'd have learned a 
lesson and possibly, just possibly, survive it. 

* * * 

The archmage Datan, having looked without compassion on the suffering of the witch, 
determined that she would live and decreed further punishment: she would pit her strength against 
the enemy she'd summoned, Tempus, a bright son whose intelligence and powerful friends she and 


three of his most trusted warlocks had underestimated, when none of their persons had seemed at 
risk. 

three of his most trusted warlocks had underestimated, when none of their persons had seemed at 
risk. 

To that end, he had other irons in his infernal fires. One of these was the child born to a 
Mygdonian general's wife in prudent preparation, eight years ago, for what his foresight told him 
soon would come to be. The boy was Datan's; the Mygdonian general, a prince, suspected but 
could not admit that an heir of Mygdon had wizard's blood; to do so, he'd have to proclaim himself 
a cuckold and slay his wife, then come to Datan in puny mortal battle: suicide was not the general's 
way. 

This hold upon one of the ruling three of Mygdonia might prove more than useful, as long as it 
remained a mere suspicion, not a public slur upon the general's manhood. And the woman 
remembered nothing more than a coupling in her dreams, though Datan's memory was clear enough 
and the woman's inclination toward him, now, so strong a child could see. And that child saw more 
than ever he should, half man, half adept, tortured by what he could not admit to be. "Possessed," 
his parents feared the boy, and brought him here to Wizardwall for Datan to "lift the curse." It was 
the mother's skirts, a second time, he ached to lift, her legs and not the boy's "affliction" he sought to 
pry apart and plumb the depths beyond. But if the father left the boy with him, he'd have another 
card to play. And the child, disdainful-eyed when he looked upon his sire of record and 
knowing-eyed when he looked his blood-father in the face, was a prize. Not since Abarsis, son of 
the Defender, had a high adept spawned a "human" child. Abarsis, though, might have sired a line of 
counter-wizards, his father's mark too strong on him, his mother's evil not enough to compel him to 
arch-magical despite. The gelding of Abarsis had been worth an entire war where wizardry howled 
round high peaks and thousands fought and died. Datan himself had overseen the campaigns which 
culminated in the Defender watching while Rankans made a eunuch-slave of his firstling, one of the 
"Unending Deaths" Rankan cruelty was proud to inflict upon its enemies. But no hint of the wizard's 
complicity ever leaked abroad; the Rankans were not allies, just pawns, their land a likely place to 
raise an empire for evil, their emperor so foul and mean he was useful as he was. Their flaccid 
mageguild had claimed the feat and triumphs as theirs; Datan had been glad to let them; he'd never 
wanted glory or recognition, just to stop the Defender in his tracks. And it had worked: even the 
name of the slain lord's empire had vanished; his seed was neutered before it could spread upon the 
land like an insidious stain. 

One nagging doubt troubled the wizard as he changed his form and sought the general's wife in 
her husband's likeness while the soldier slept in mid-step high on the battlement wall. Tempus had 
gone up into Uraete and snatched baby Abarsis from his slavemaster and taken the boy west to 
grow into a priest; the Riddler could know of Datan's part in all this; the gods told the man what 
they felt he needed to know. If so, the man he sought must be seeking him, and in the end they'd 
have to meet. 

But the woman was warm and the night was soft, and yet another wizardspawn among 
Mygdonians increased the odds fourfold in his favor. She'd have to forget, of course, and seduce 
her husband yet tonight. His sperm would by then have done its work; human semen was no match 
for warlock's, let alone adept's. 


When he was done he climbed his tower, took to the air, and went summoning; he'd friends to 
recruit for this endeavor, fiends to find and skeins of time to bind in serviceable knots. 

When he was done he climbed his tower, took to the air, and went summoning; he'd friends to 
recruit for this endeavor, fiends to find and skeins of time to bind in serviceable knots. 

* * * 

Tempus and Jihan came upon the caravan three days and nights north of Sanctuary on what was 
generously called the "general's route," not the usual caravan's treknortheast through the badlands 
or east, then north, following the coast but then this was no usual caravan. Its speed was 
phenomenal and its endurance a match to even Tempus' Trs horses. 

He could have gone all night and day at full gallop to interdict them; Jihan's stamina had never 
been tested. But the horses were flesh and blood uncursed and non-magical; though Trsbreds had 
constitutions twice the strength of any other strain, for their sakes the pursuers rested four hours 
nightly. 

It must have been that the caravan did not, Jihan said softly to Tempus' throat the first evening, 
camped out between the forests easterly and the beginnings of the southern range that became 
Wizardwall when it veered and joined the high peaks, ten days' ride at the pace they were making. 
They had a fire that first night, and it flickered in the Frosh Daughter's eyes: "I could call a cloud to 
take us; we could travel by it to their camp, or just beyond them on any road." 

"No. No magic," he declined her offer, conscious of her fiery eyes and the coolness of her flesh 
no bonfire could warm. 

"It's not magic, it's my birthright. I need to make no pact with nature; I am one of its expressions; 
no demons can offer me controls on earth I don't already have." 

"No, I said." He seldom repeated himself; he was not used to being questioned, or brooking 
argument, or hearing out disparate views. He'd turned away and gotten up and gone out hunting 
with his bow. They'd eaten well, but from their stores; grouse or quail for morning would suit him. 
The moon was just past full on its way to third quarter and plenty bright for him. He didn't know if 
she slepthe still could not. Perhaps she'd learn respect as she got more experience of femininity, 
perhaps she'd never learnhuman for a year was hardly human. 

If she continued insisting on cloud-conveyance and such manipulations of order, he was going to 
lose her somewhere in these hills. He'd had too many close encounters with the comptrollers of 
unnatural advantage to take them lightly. His mouth was soured with the taste of her words: despite 
his resolve and best effort, he'd gotten involved with something, in Jihan, which could not be 
weighed on natural scales or assessed in the way he liked. 

Pretense of hunting cast aside, he climbed a hill and sought the gods. When he'd daily been 
afflicted with the Rankan Storm God's presence, he'd longed to be without it. But he sought a sign, 
now, to ease confusion: wisdom seemed to have fled him as he fled his Stepsons and responsibilities 
in the town. He seethed with a craving for bloody vengeance such as he had not known for ages. It 
was not just Abarsis, lanni, or Niko or Niko's prior deceased partnerbut all he'd done in vain 
in Sanctuary, all the god had put him through and left. "Come forth, mighty Pillager! Show Yourself. 
Art Thou craven, coward's god? Art Thou weak, a mouse among deities? Where is Thine thunder 
and Thine lightnings, now?" 

But the sky was silent; it flickered with colored light but thundered not. He shot three grouse 
when dawn was breaking to make things look aright and brought them back to camp. She'd kept 
the fire burning; if she'd slept, there was no sign of it. In her tricolor enamel armor, she blended into 


the terrain so that he saw her only when she turned her head and waved. 

the terrain so that he saw her only when she turned her head and waved. 

"Cook?" She shrugged and pulled the wings off one fat grouse to eat it raw. When he stalked 
fireward to do the work himself, he saw her lift her gaze and grace him with a gory grin. She loved 
to bait him, as at times she tried to rape him. Of all the things his extended memory recalled, she 
was the strangest that had ever happened to him. He might deserve her, fit punishment for all he had 
squeezed from life, but at times he did detest her, a power-child playing human for a year. 

The next night, when they stopped and cooled the blowing horses, iron-black with sweat and 
thinning before his eyes, they talked long into the night about the seven spheres whose regents 
guided the course of time, and the twelve planes, from which both she and Akelon, lord of dreams, 
had come, metaphysical realms barred to earthly beings while they dwelled in flesh and blood. 

He determined that Jihan, herself, while in woman's form, could not flit back home at will, but 
not how Akelon had bent the rules for Tempus' sister Cime, and whisked her away where Tempus 
could never follow: Akelon's domain was dream, the archipelago named in his honor materialized 
only once in a great while. 

Tempus wished that he could dream, then was glad that he did not, as Jihan tried to tell him what 
"life" was like as a Froth Daughter, a principle of tide and wave. 

The third night they had settled into a truce of sorts, not talking of what could not be solved, not 
his sister nor Jihan's husband-of-intent, the dream lord. They kept to mundane matters: warlocks 
and wizardry abroad in Ranke; of the time he'd spent upcountry in the buffer-states of empire; of 
what he knew of Mygdon's allies and satellitesUraete, Sivis, Altoch and black Nisibis, abode of 
archmages of the most heinous sort. 

"The witch will know we're coming," she said sensibly. 

"Perhaps," he admitted. He had his sword, which sliced sorcery like eggs. She guessed his 
thought when his hand went to it, and pointed out that if he could bide an antimagical weapon, then 
he had no right to tell her she couldn't use her own. 

And it was well that he agreed that, much as he disliked to admit it, this was so. For on the next 
evening the caravan's lights showed round a hill where the general's route veers west, zigging before 
it zagged due east through the great forest toward Ranke's very seat. 

"Look! See?" she called, her muscular arm afire with sunset. 

"Silence. Quiet, girl." He'd seen. 

They waited until dark, then crawled up the hillock on their bellies before the moon rose, while 
behind them Trs horses stamped and snorted (hobbled, blindfolded, their noses cased in feedbags 
lest the smell of sorcery spook them, or the witch try to enlist them). If he could, he'd have stopped 
their ears as well. 

On the hillock's crest he notched a bolt and waited for something to move in the dell below. The 
lights were lit on wagon's tarps; beasts of burden seemed still hitched between their traces, but the 
light was trickywhat he saw, he thought, could not be so: skeleton drays and luminous bones of 
oxen standing tall between wagon poles, harnessed up and grazing. 

It was a sight to foul the calmest stomach; Jihan shuddered, turned away to him. "The witch 
awaits," she whispered, drawing a handful of throwing stars, a western fighter's weapon gotten from 
Niko along with instructions in the form. "I'll come upon them from the rear; you take the front." 


He knew her eager. Why? To please him? Compete with him? She was overqualified for slaying 
even witches, he thought. But though the words rang clear in his mind he could not speak them; they 
would not mount his tongue to be said. So he did not deny her a part in this, but sent her forth, a 
few simple handsignals and whistled calls determined between them. 

He knew her eager. Why? To please him? Compete with him? She was overqualified for slaying 
even witches, he thought. But though the words rang clear in his mind he could not speak them; they 
would not mount his tongue to be said. So he did not deny her a part in this, but sent her forth, a 
few simple handsignals and whistled calls determined between them. 

Yet he couldn't cease thinking about her as he'd think of a weak Rankan woman, a girl for 
raping, a lady for safekeeping, a childwhich, in the ways of men, she was. 

So he slithered down the hill, bow in left hand, sword drawn in right and hastily wiped in muddy 
dirt to hide its glitter as the moon began to rise. 

Down on the flat of the dell, he heard a clatter, a raucous din which made him start. Then Jinan's 
voice called out: "There's nothing here but detritus: bones and empty wagons; these beasts of 
burden died upright; a breath will blow them over." 

He followed her voice and heard the war cry of an eagle far above, odd at night but not 
impossible; he saw it cross the moon from right to left, an auspicious omen. Then he heard another, 
as he trotted among the wagons, calling Jihan's name as she did his, close at times but never finding 
one another, until he was running and she was cursing huskily, and shadows began appearing with 
bright flickering eyes among the skeletons and the wagon hulks. 

A beat of wings warmed him as clouds scudded across the moon and all went black; he heard a 
human-sounding cry and yelled, "Jihan, get out of here!" before talons raked him, and he engaged a 
feathered enemy, his sword slicing it in twain with a single spattering blow. And the blood that fell 
on him stung like spiders' bites and burned his skin so that it smoked. He dived aside as the corpse 
of the eagle, writhing, changing as it fell in two halves to earth, landed. He thought he saw human 
arms take shape amid the lamplit feathers as another screeched his way. 

He went down under the second and tore talons from his throat, his bow discarded: its killing 
power was for mortals, only. As its beak snapped and clacked inches from his cheeks, he struck 
down toward his own face to impale the huge eagle from behind. 

In the name of all the gods of war he cursed sorcery and its offenders as he felt his blood flow 
and the eagle jerk and flap, spitted on his blade. 

This time the acid blood spilled in one eye, and as he used what strength he had to throw a 
woman's weight of wounded bird from his swordpoint, he saw it turn to something female, swearing 
unintelligibly as it tried to crawl away. 

He chased it, throwing himself to the ground to follow under a wagon, but the wagon burst into 
flame, and he heard Jihan's scream. And as he scrambled out from under its axle, he caught a 
glimpse of a witch's face, contorted and streaked with blood from what should have been a mortal 
neck wound, looking back over its shoulder at him. He'd seen that face before, seen it beautiful, its 
eyes black with kohl and not these awful ringed shadows, at the mageguild fte. He locked eyes 
with it, saluted, his blade's point up, her blood upon it: "Another time, then." 

It hissed and faded away. 

Then, gaining his feet he went running, one eye useless, blood flowing thick and fast from his 
gored neck, to where he thought he heard Jihan's voice and saw her engaged with a man-shaped 
foe. Coming up from behind at it, he saw her break its hold and thrust it toward him, her arms 
outstretched. Halfway to him, where it would have impaled itself upon his blade, mist came around 
it and thickened and froze: between steps, the foe was encased completely in a solid block of ice. 


She came toward him then, tearing matted hair from blazing eyes. "What sort of fight is this?" 

She came toward him then, tearing matted hair from blazing eyes. "What sort of fight is this?" 

"Or she?" 

"Or she. From now on, follow my directions" He kicked the ice. "so we can find each 
other." 

"You were worried?" 

"I'd as soon not have your father's wrath on top of all else to contend with," he lied, and went 
seeking a witch or warlock among the train. 

But nothing magical came charging, beyond the odd event that skeletons turned to living dray 
beasts and wagons filled with merchandise and loot. 

He found apparently human foes, dispatched two who wouldn't listen, took seven men hostage 
and went seeking one the others swore was their leader, called "Jagat." 

He discovered the caravan's master snoring loud in the lead wagon, a krtf pipe by his head. He 
bound him, since he couldn't wake him, and sought Jihan, who'd used up all her throwing stars and 
had eight wounded coffled like newly consecrated slaves. 

Off to the side, he said: "We need no prisoners." 

"What, then? Slay them? They're human hirelings, mediocre fighters, anxious for a quick 
surrender, so it seems." 

"So it seems. But they might be anythingtraps of sorts, mages in disguise or canny demons. 
Kill whom you can; whoever won't die is of the other sort. I have the leader, he's all I want of this 
trash." 

She scowled at him. "Such disrespect of life." 

"Yes, well, I've heard all that before. You're welcome to take your moral indignation elsewhere. 
Me, I've got a war to win." 

He stalked away to dispatch his prisoners, not waiting to see what she'd do with hers. 

Two hours later they left the burning wagons, corpses in their midst, the animals turned loose 
because he was softhearted. Any mage who knew him might well have taken bovine form to escape 
a confrontation by that means. But one cannot slay every living thing upon a battlefield: they can 
come as eagles and go as fleas, and fleas are hazardous to chase, near impossible to slay in the dark 
and open grass. 

When they had the leader back at campside, he told Jihan to take a walk, go away. But the 
man, the witch's hireling, begged her please to stay: "Protect me, gracious lady." The creature 
whimpered, a one-eyed, stubbled face implored her as it began to sweat. Tempus' bloody, ravaged 
doom-face was not one from which mercy might be exhorted. 

Tempus knew there was something wrong here, but hushed his inner voice and set about a 
polite, by Rankan standards, interrogation that lasted all that night. 

In the morning, chilled by what he'd learned, he slew the manif man it wasand admitted that 
he'd like to take Jihan up on her offer of cloud-conveyance. He needed to get to Tyse; there was an 
intelligence officer at the Tyse station named Grillo he must see. 

But when the cloud separated itself from the natural clouds of sunrise and stretched itself their 
way like a telescopic glass extended, the horses balked at stepping in between the mists, beyond 


which could be seen the terraced outskirts of a once-great city, now contoured ruins crumbling into 
dirt. 

which could be seen the terraced outskirts of a once-great city, now contoured ruins crumbling into 
dirt. 

At length, when ropes upon their rumps wouldn't goad them and his pushing from behind while 
Jihan tried to lead them forward wouldn't convince them, when his toes had been stepped on thrice 
and his yet-swollen eye and serum-sticky neck had been pelted with clods and dirt and dust, they 
blindfolded them both and led the snorting, dancing, froth-necked stallions through into the cloud 
whose mists let them out in Tyse, a mere dozen horses' lengths away. 

* * * 

Roxane almost spoke his true name when she caught Datan with the Mygdonian bitch headed 
up toward the ramparts for breakfast while she was coming down. She checked herself in time, 
though, and struck the woman blind instead: the rage in her was too great to be bottled long, and 
mortal eyes had no right to see her wounded, half a woman, half eagle yet, too weak from her 
wounds to change in full, her black-feathered bleeding wing dragging with a sussurrus upon the high 
peaks stones. 

And her lover-lord, unmoved, looked upon her plight with lightless eyes and murmured that she 
must get some rest, must Roxane. He could have helped her, lent her strength to hasten her return to 
human form. But he forbore it, more concerned with the hysterical human mare swooning on his 
arm. If the sight of Roxane so distressed her, then it was best for her to see no more. 

And he, with a mere "Control yourself, enchantress," would have gone upon his way, the blind 
woman mincing and moaning, her face gone white as the skull beneath her flesh. 

But Roxane interposed herself in his path: "Ask, dear lord, of your second in command, sweet 
warlock gone to pay eternal price." 

"I see you. I have no need to ask. Next time, witch, proceed with caution. And be successful, or 
your discomfort now will be a state you remember fondly, even crave. You boasted you could lure 
him, you could take him, stop him and rout him. Now do what you have said. Be gone. On your 
way." 

"Her dark you shall not lift!" Roxane pointed to the woman, frail and groping, and then at last 
discerned the new life stirring under a well-tended belly flat and firm. "Not in this life." 

"Then in the next," he answered calmly, a tiny frown auguring the end of his patience. 

Hers was gone but for a shred. She brushed on past, the clack of one clawed foot and the brush 
of one wounded wing all that could be heard in the daystruck hall but for the blinded human's sobs. 
A warlock was dead, and Jagat and many minions who'd cost much to raise and more to field. 
There were two others, yet, to summon; help to find, strength to gain, a war to win. Then Datan, 
false beloved lord, would feel her wrath. Men, beguiling with their childish pride and lust for war, 
good for little more than raising castles and making laws and changing currency, cannot stand before 
feminine ire; straightforward thinking always fails before the convoluted passion of womankind. As 
in humans, threefold in mages. And Roxane was the strongest witch born in Nisibis in a thousand 
years. 

She'd only just begun to fight. She'd win, and he'd know weakness against which Roxane's 
transitory debility would seem like virile strength. Once she'd been content to love him. Now, fury 
within, she sought to break him. No omen contravened her. She'd triumph. There was but time to 


pass till then. 

pass till then. 

For Roxane needed strength, and the child's soul was delectable and rare: half mage, thus worth 
a dozen mortals, he'd give her all she craved, slain or bound in service. And some soul must buy a 
murdered warlock peace. Datan cared not a whit about her colleague, lost this night, but Roxane 
did, and her rage was so fierce it clouded over the morning sky. 

In her chamber she threw the bolt and seated the boy, all bright-eyed with excitement that finally 
a power of Wizardwall had acknowledged him, upon her feathered bed. She'd more in store for this 
one than he reckoned, but, calmer now, she meant to let him love her, initiate him, and make him the 
Mygdonian Alliance's foulest bane. 

While he stripped, she judged him old enough for ritual copulation, and while he watched she 
summoned both the warlocks who remained alive who'd had a hand in the plot to lure the Riddler 
up to Wizardwall. And while they conferred, the boy stayed, privy, his hungry eyes upon her helping 
to turn her wing to arm and clawed foot human. And when they'd gone, to make themselves ready, 
she bade him bring her bowl all filled with water and showed him Nikodemos, enthralled and 
convalescing, and what a witch could do to change the fate of men. 

* * * 

It was the nights, not the days, spent in his billet recuperating, that Niko remembered most 
clearly. During the daytime, Sacred Banders sat with him in shifts, so that if he woke from delirium 
he would not be alone. By the third day, his nights of sweat-drenched dreams troubled all nine 
Sacred Band pairs, for the youngest of their number was obviously possessed. The second night, 
when none were with him, he'd been seen shuffling through the camp, bent rightward to ease his 
tight-bound ribs, collecting his effects and his equipment. In the morning, when the first team came 
bearing breakfast and determined smiles to hide their worry, he lay red-eyed and wrapped in 
sopping bedclothes, an enameled cuirass amid the sheets. And there was no doubt that it was the 
same arcane, enchanted armor the dream lord had given him (with its curling colored snakes and 
raised demons from Enlil's myths), which he had sacrificed upon his left-man's bier months before. 

That day was Janni's pyre day; they couldn't wait another: they'd put it off twice. And, as if the 
reappearance of the charmed cuirass from out of nowhere was not enough, Abarsis's shade 
coalesced out of the smoke and flame and, before it took Janni's spirit up to heaven, walked across 
the space cleared of awed and retreating Stepsons to peer into Niko's battered face, where he 
stood supported by the senior Sacred Band team, and frown, and weep, and touch his cheek. 

Critias came to see him, pacing back and forth the third night in his billet, for he'd heard that 
Niko was determined to leave in the morning: 

"You can barely hobble about, Stealth. What's the hurry? Death's easy to find. If she wants you, 
you'll meet her here as well as anywhere." 

Niko, standing to prove he could, one arm braced against the whitewashed wall, had spoken as 
strongly as he had the strength to: "I can't stay. All my ghosts are here. My rest-place is filled with 
strangers; my nights are battles. I don't expect you to understand. I don't I've got to go." 

"Where?" Crit stalked up to him, fists balled as if he would strike him, but hit the wall beside his 
head instead. Niko didn't flinch. Crit sighed, then said: "You're my responsibility. Tell me where 


you're going, why you won't let a pair go with youwe've got four teams queued up to 
volunteeror you'll go as a civilian." 

you're going, why you won't let a pair go with youwe've got four teams queued up to 
volunteeror you'll go as a civilian." 

"Bugger your dreams, Stealth. Your thinking's addled; you've taken a blow to the head. This 
happens men go down hard, they come back hard. Stay until you're well, at least." 

"Nothing's going to happen to me," Niko said wearily. "I almost wish it would. Now, if you care 
about your responsibilities, you've discharged them. If you care about the Stepsons, let me go. You 
saw the omen at Janni's funeral. And they want me to pair again. I'm not strong enough to keep 
refusing if I stay you don't know what it's like to lose two partners" 

"Would that I didn't." Crit put thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, massaging. "Go on 
then, stubborn bastard. Go. But leave an itineraryyou're still putatively under my command." 

He did, but the dreams got no better. He'd stumbled around putting his packs together, saddling 
his pregnant sorrel mare while two Sacred Band pairs stood by, silent and unhappy, their offers of 
assistance refused, with crossed arms and helpless scowls. Despite his protestations, they'd ridden 
with him the first dayall Critias, concerned that his authority was being eroded, would allow. 

He'd meant to go by the coast routeit would be easier on the mare, three months along, and 
on himself. He did, that first day, trying not to think about the half-Trs foal she carried, though it 
wouldn't show until fall, and what the invasion of his rest-place by spirits known and unknown could 
mean. He couldn't talk to the Sacred Banders about it, so they talked about the unseasonably hot 
weather, about the substitutes to be hired so the Stepsons could go north, about where he'd meet 
them when they did. The coastal route was cool and the sea breeze welcome; he'd packed all his 
winter gear on the bay gelding he ponied-a gift from Janni, willed to him. 

They'd camped by the shore and had a farewell dinner, the two pairs pledging to handle all 
Niko's affairsthe replacement who must be found, the obligation he felt to do something for 
Tamzen's fatherand though the ocean breeze dried their summer sweat and eased their worry, he 
could see it in their eyes and in their auras. 

After the meal, they rode due west back to town, and Niko was alone. 

The relief he felt was monumental. If he'd known himself a plague carrier, he'd have been no 
more anxious to go a solitary route. He could let out his fear, his pain, wrestle with the horror he 
kept meeting in his rest-place. 

He didn't understand why his place of peace had been invaded. Before his elder partner's death, 
it had been his sure refuge, his safe place where no evil penetrated, his shelter from all worldly 
storms. 

He'd dealt with the visitations of his left-side leader as Tempus had suggested, banishing his own 
fear and making room for a soul who'd chosen to stay with the boy he'd spent near a decade 
protecting. He'd had discussions in his mind with his old friend, and, along with his moot, his poise 
and perspective, the soul of his left-side partner had seemed to fade away. 

He was beyond worrying that he'd lost his nerve; if it had been that simple, if he could have 
owned to cowardice and returned to normal, he'd have written the damning sign upon his brow. But 
it was worseit was real. He knew it, and he knew he didn't know enough, that he didn't 
understand what was happening to him. When the fire burned out he was too sore and weak and 
dizzy to see to it; he rolled slowly, cautiously over onto his back and, alone, he cried. 

He should never have taken another partner after his leftside leader perished, not when Akelon, 
the very lord of dreams, had seen into Niko's future and known that charmed weapons would be 


needed. He'd brought the dirk and the sword, he wore them now, when before he'd arrogantly 
assumed he could decline the offer to enter a higher plane of battle. And the cuirass had come back 
like a flying wing, as real and substantial as it had been the day the threw it on his leader's bier. 

needed. He'd brought the dirk and the sword, he wore them now, when before he'd arrogantly 
assumed he could decline the offer to enter a higher plane of battle. And the cuirass had come back 
like a flying wing, as real and substantial as it had been the day the threw it on his leader's bier. 

But alone, with no moat to guide or caution him and no comrade to share his doubts, he was 
particularly vulnerable. And he couldn't die with his mental mansion in such disarray. That was a 
death he couldn't face, one without the surety and comfort that Niko, born in war and -orphaned by 
Ranke, had traveled far west and studied long in the Bandara Islands sanctuaries to claim. His 
studies told him eternal damnation awaited, and his chances of avoiding it lessened daily. 

They'd made only a few miles that first day, Niko setting a slow pace because of the mare. He 
slept not at all that first night, afraid to sleep, and in the morning he saddled the mare and harnessed 
the bay and set off, so tired that he kept falling asleep in his saddle, one arm pressed firmly against 
his bound side for the comfort that brought, his puffy eyes closed against the hot summer sun. 

He must have slept a long time, for when he awoke the sea was nowhere in sight and out of 
earshot, and sands were all around him, the sands of the young desert, not the shore. The mare 
must have veered off to join the caravan route; she'd been that way before. The sun was white-hot 
here and Niko couldn't even summon sufficient worry, just kept drifting in and out of consciousness, 
recollecting where he was, feeling a start of fear sharpen him transitorily, then sinking back into 
lethargy. And yet, when he woke in sunset, they'd made better time than ever he thought they could: 
before him, birds of prey, eagles or hawks, wheeled high in the pink and purple dusk; where they 
congregated, water was. He headed the mare toward it and found they'd made the first caravan 
oasis; perhaps he'd slept around the dial. 

He didn't care. He slid from his mare and she nuzzled him. He reached up and slipped off her 
headstall, telling her to go eat and drink, and stretched out upon the oasis's cool lush grass beneath 
a pair of tree-high ferns, thinking he should unsaddle her and unburden the pack horse. But when 
next he woke, it was dark and all that was done: the horses tended, a fire burning, stew cooking in 
his single pot. 

He hadn't dreamed at all, that he remembered. He felt stronger, and his vision was clear. 

He ate his food and fondled his horses and went back to sleep, a blanket pulled over him against 
the desert night's chill. This time in his dreams he met Tamzen and the other girls, undead with pure 
white eyes, and they were throwing dice in his meadow. They waved gaily and called to him to join 
the game. 

He was walking that way, reminding himself that he was dreaming, that his body was sick and 
hurriedly healing, that all this would pass, when the dream lord himself reared up before him, 
Tempus' sister on his arm. 

They were so real he tried to run, then, but Akelon stayed him with a gentle hand. He'd seen 
that hand drip the blood of eons in the real world; he'd seen that face, so calm, so compassionate, 
much paler and insubstantial in reality than in his dream it had become. The voice he heard was the 
same, though, and the woman, Cime, grasped him by the swordbelt as she had done in life. 

"Am I dead?" he heard himself ask. 

"Not yet, young fighter," she laughed. "When you see my brother, tell him we will help himgive 
him courage to act, make him strong when he is weakbut he must call on us. We cannot interfere 


directly." She was weeping, but talking as if she didn't know it, just the glistening tears rolling 
unheeded down her fine cheeks. 

directly." She was weeping, but talking as if she didn't know it, just the glistening tears rolling 
unheeded down her fine cheeks. 

"Why does she cry?" he asked again, for Cime was dissolving; he could see through her; then 
she was gone. 

The dream lord shrugged, eyes gray like pack ice and full of shadows. "She has much to cry for: 
what has happened, and will happen. Don't add yourself to her wealth of tears. Be strong. Control 
your mind. Heed your dreams. Guard your soul." 

"My dreams are frightful. I'm weak. I'm afraid. My moat has deserted me. Help me" Even in 
dreams that was hard for Niko to ask. "you're master of dreams. I can't sleep at night, and in the 
day, I can't stay awake..." 

But the dream lord was going, shaking his head sadly, his translucent, then transparent lips 
forming words a wind whipped away. 

When Niko woke he was soaked and shivering and his mare was snuffling round him, her wet 
muzzle and moist breath in his hair. He stroked her, then put his arms around her neck and she 
helped him gain his feet by raising her head. He stood a long time that way, an arm over her withers, 
his face pressed to her neck. Already the dream's message, if there had been one, was fading. 

* * * 

From the moment the cloud-conveyance deposited them on the outskirts of Tyse, whirling in on 
itself to disappear with an audible "pop," Tempus had been conscious of the change in his internal 
rhythmsthe adjustment his body made to the smells and sights of war. 

His pulse beat more determinedly; his energy, never low, was continually at peak; his recent 
wounds tingled as they rushed to heal, and all the nagging debilities he'd lived with for interminable 
peaceful years made themselves known by their absence: his back didn't ache; his muscles refused 
to knot with fatigue; his senses were sharpened, and his stomach and gut tingled with a low-key 
excitement he'd not realized was part of what he missed when he cursed the sluggish peace long 
abroad upon the land. 

Jihan, craning her neck at Wizardwall, hulking over the town of Tyse dark and shimmering with 
sorcery which made a difficult climb nearly impossible, remarked upon its foreboding reaches. 

The Trs horses, nostrils distended to catch the messages the cool wind brought them high in the 
foothills, arched their necks and danced along. 

They'd ridden only as far as the mercenaries' hostel that first day, where they checked in and 
secured clean box stalls for their mounts and requested the sort of accommodations reserved for 
Sacred Bandersa pair of rooms with a door between. The duty officer looked at Jihan quizzically, 
but made no objection to Tempus lodging her as his guest. 

In the evening, they went sightseeing, Jihan's hand clamped upon his upper arm and her scale 
armor polished so that it glittered in the torchlit streets. To do so, they'd had to obtain passes they 
wore on armbands: Tyse was under martial law. 

Jihan was distressed by what she saw: wars of attrition have a particular coloration and stench of 
slow death about them, and Tyse's plight (enmeshed in civil war fomented by Nisibisi agitators, her 
once-great central "countoured city" reduced to a mile-long, walled and crumbling refugee camp 
holding southward-fleeing deportees chased down from Mygdonia with an eye toward straining 


Ranke's ability to cope, both economically and militarily) was obvious to even her untrained, newly 
human eye. 

Ranke's ability to cope, both economically and militarily) was obvious to even her untrained, newly 
human eye. 

But as they walked the better neighborhoods, where the outreach satrapies maintained their 
missions and Rankan treaty cosignatories had their embassies and consulates, he realized that 
Upper Ranke could not long survive or absorb the influx of indigents, criminals, orphans and 
husbandless girls with fat child-bellies begging soldiers to let them sleep in doorways. 

Normal police and Elite Guard stations were so outnumbered as to be useless. Jails were full. 
Hangmen were busy. Common graves were the order of the day. 

On every street corner and byway army patrols were deployed. Sandbagged bunkers hosted 
infantry squadrons in Embassy Square; siege engines and "mountains" on wheels with men atop the 
towers and great slings to throw naphtha fireballs rivaled Wizardwall with their threatening profiles 
against the moonlit night sky. 

The sewers were overtaxed, and the refuse stacked high, and the stench, even in the better 
quarters, far from the teeming refugee camp, was intolerable; people burned cedar and pennyroyal 
and walked with kerchiefs bound over their noses and mouths. 

"But it's so terrible!" Jinan whispered, as he chuckled at her naivete. "You told me Sanctuary 
was the nadir of the human condition!" 

"It is. This is transitory, a condition imposed from without. In Sanctuary, the status quo is 
maintained by choice. Those who live there make the town what it is. As for terribleI'm not sure 
it's terrible enough to have the desired effect." 

"And what is that?" She turned her head to look at him in the torch- and moonlit street; he saw 
the red flecks stirring in her eyes: she was earnest, angry, or distressed. 

"To stop insurrection here: containment. No one wants this to be the state of empire. Civil 
war" 

"No, no. What is that?" She pointed toward the intersection they were approaching, lighted on 
every side with panniers of oil borne by colossal lions of chocolate granite. 

"Oh, thatthe palace. There's a royal family in there somewhere, gnashing their teeth and 
picking at motheaten ceremonial brocades. Tyse's being administrated by a provisional military 
governor, invited in along with the Rankan army to reestablish order" He thought better of 
explanations. He wasn't about to get into politics with Jihan. 

Coming out onto the palace square of a once-sovereign city-state which was now a client and 
buffer-state of Imperial Ranke, Jihan asked innocently: "How long ago, sleepless one, was the army 
invited?" She had seen one permanent garrison; he had mentioned the other three. Despite the 
factions warring in the streets, order was being maintained from four Rankan garrisonsone at 
each compass pointwhich made sure that no street in town save in the central refugee camp was 
free from the tramp of Rankan boots. 

"Invited? Nearly three years, but there's been a Rankan presence here ever since the treaties 
were signed" 

"And before?" She bared her teeth. 


He did likewise: "How else would the treaties have been signed?" 

He did likewise: "How else would the treaties have been signed?" 

They were warned by a bored, fat sentry that they might lose their property, their identity, or 
even their lives, and that neither the provisional governor of Tyse nor the Rankan government would 
redress any grievances incurred within. When his rote speech was done, the portly sentry, who was 
posted right between two braces of torches flanking the entrance, removed his helmet to wipe a 
perspiring brow and offered to put them in touch with "various sources of hire or pleasure for a 
fee." 

Tempus asked pointblank if the sentry knew of any agents of the Successors in the camp, and 
the man held out his hand. 

He followed the directions he'd bought for a Rankan soldat through a press of stinking humanity: 
the weak ones who could only survive on the outskirts, the beggars, the worst of the working 
women, cripples, handless thieves, sleeping drunks, lots filled with snoring mortal refuse so thick it 
seemed a flock of penned sheep slept there. Jihan hugged his arm to her breast and leaned her head 
against his shoulder as they made slow progress through the living dross of war. 

"Successors?" she whispered, finally. "What success lies here?" 

"Bashir's commandos recruit from streets like these." They were entering the "business" section, 
where tents and hovels had in common tightly-laced flaps or shuttered doors. He knew what to 
look for. 

He'd left word at the hostel that he wanted to see Grillo. Wherever he was, he'd get Tempus's 
message. Going to the embassy asking for him might be the most harmful thing Tern-pus could do to 
the man whose help he sought. Meanwhile, other means must be explored. 

The free zone's center was pocked with circular depressions once used as meeting places and 
temples when the walls around towered three stories high. Now the thatch-and-cane roofs had 
crumbled, and the felled trees which once supported them were but stumps protruding from 
mortared walls. 

But the refugees had found their own use for the pits; even in this chaos, a social order existed: 
the powerful and the feared held the circular sunken theaters and the open spaces and the few 
defensible buildings which had once served as the Tysian city-state's administrative headquarters. It 
was toward these that Tempus guided Jihan, passing trading stalls and colored tents whose greasy 
flaps told that they'd been here for years; goats and sheep and the occasional pony were strung on 
tethers; men in brightly colored tatters made deals before their stalls; the smell of krff and beer and 
wine going to vinegar mixed with garlic and pig and unwashed woman on the breeze. 

They passed between a man selling boys and two boys selling their sisters and skirted a goatskin 
tent. Before them was the first of the great circular depressions, this one filled with makeshift altars 
raised to the glory of a dozen gods. Here incense burned and blew their way so that Tempus's sore 
eye stung. An ox bellowed and lunged on his tether while three men hacked at his neck with 
dull-edged axes. 

Jihan turned her face against his shoulder and refused to descend the steps into the pit. He said 
something he'd been meaning not to saythat her father, Stormbringer, had wreaked such havoc 
and slaughter in Sanctuary that even the god Tempus served was vanquished, perhaps destroyed, 
and she had stood by unmoved, uncaring: he felt her despair at the human condition to be 
overblown, inappropriate, since her sort decreed the fates of men. 

"You cannot know that my father had a hand in the god's disappearance! Perhaps He became 


despairing of you, which anyone might" 

despairing of you, which anyone might" 

The child, in torchlight flush-cheeked and better fed than most Tempus had seen here, writhed 
until Jihan grasped Tempus' arm: "Put him down," while the boy wriggled, lips pressed tight 
together, neck craned, and eyes darting back in the direction from which he'd come. 

"God got your tongue?" 

"He's afraid!" 

"Are you, boy?" 

"Let me go!" The boy's voice was imperious, his accent Mygdonian. Tempus held onto him. 

Two men came careening around a corner, shouting to Tempus to hold the wretch, and there 
was a soldat in it for him. 

Jihan stepped in front of Tempus and the child, who could be no more than eight or ten, her 
arms crossed and her flesh chilling the air. 

"Jihan, don't do it! Perhaps they have good reason, perhaps he's a thief, a" 

"Then we shall pay his debt," Tempus heard her say as the boy, who had ceased struggling, 
fixed him with a gray-eyed gaze too fatalistic for his years. 

He lowered the child so that his feet touched the ground. The urchin stood uncertainly for a 
moment, turned once full around, deciding which escape route might serve him, then bolted toward 
Jihan, burying his head against her mailed waist: "Help me, lady, they'll make a slave of me. Oh, help 
me" 

"We'll help you, little one, never fear." She ruffled the tow-head's hair and Tempus almost left 
her then, to deal with complications of her own making. 

But the men had slowed to a walk and approached, hands on their swords. Their cuirasses were 
scuffed and duty; their boots were worn through and their smell preceded them. Yet there was 
something wrong about themtheir shoulders were too straight, their backs unbowed, and their 
command of the dirt they strode through taken too much for granted. 

Tempus came up beside Jihan and felt the boy's fingers clutch his belt. He pried them away, not 
looking down: "What's the trouble here?" 

"You've a hold of it. That's our boy, there." 

"He says not." Tempus didn't like their eyestoo calm, too steady for slavers'; too pale for 
Mygdonians'"My friend fancies him. I'd not argue with her, if I were you. A disputed person in 
the free zone is not uncommon" 

Their hands went to draw their swords, but Jihan was quicker two throwing stars whispered 
through the air and stuck in two bearded throats. The men went down like sacks of flour, crumpling 
in place; then they began to smoke, or to crumblehe couldn't tell which. Like smoke, their 
substance diffused, leaving only clothing and weapons lying abandoned in an empty street. 

A man or two muttered wards; most lingering by the stalls and tents roundabout merely turned 
away. "Come on, then bring him," Tempus allowed, and out of the corner of his eye saw camp 
snipes scuttle out from shadows to fight over the swordbelts, cuirasses, and boots lying in the dirt. 


The boy was weak, so Jihan hoisted him and bore him on her hip, his head against her breast; 
Tempus could hear him choking back sobs as he thanked her and she promised him salvation 
Tempus doubted they could accord. His was not a family outing; she was becoming more trouble 
than she was worth. 

The boy was weak, so Jihan hoisted him and bore him on her hip, his head against her breast; 
Tempus could hear him choking back sobs as he thanked her and she promised him salvation 
Tempus doubted they could accord. His was not a family outing; she was becoming more trouble 
than she was worth. 

So he strode onward toward the tent he sought, hoping they'd get lost or disappear. When he 
found it, he bade her wait outside, and this she was willing to do. The child had her full attention. At 
the time, he thought it a stroke of luck. 

Within the tent a score of reavers lounged, and he asked for someone who could take a 
message to Bashir when two barred his waynearly his height and looking older and more worn 
than three centuries had left him. 

"Bashir? Why not? For a fee And then the gods, too any you choose," one said, and his 
companion, then the others behind, all rising, laughed. 

"Who wants him?" the second said, half-turning his head to make a signal behind his back that 
Tempus understood. 

"A friend of his father's. From the old wars." 

"The long wars? You're not old enough to remember them," a grizzled veteran with half of his 
cheek gouged away and scars dragging the flesh tight and leftward above his eye said, pushing 
between and past the pair of sentries. The man had grayish-yellow hair and a trio of symbols etched 
into the shoulder of his cuirass where bronze plates met leather: he'd fought the Defender, one of the 
symbols proclaimed to all who could read them; he'd fought the Nisibisi, and fought them still; he'd 
fought Ranke... 

Tempus named Bashir's father, who'd formed the Successors, premier guerrilla fighters turned 
high-mountain bandits; he spoke a safe-passage code he hadn't had to use in twenty years. Had the 
man not been close to fifty, he wouldn't have remembered it. 

As it was, the old fighter was suspicious: "At the mercenaries' hostel, you say? Rankan, are ye? 
Friendly calls by Rankans aren't welcome. The scumbag army regulars pay us too many of 'em. But 
we'll send someone with your message fight beside us, you say? How many men?" 

Tempus was careful not to give his name or divulge that those who followed him were Stepsons 
and Sacred Banders: "Enough to make a difference. Send word where I can meet him." He backed 
out of there and, when the tent flap fell, breathed a sigh of relief. He'd collect Jihan and pry her from 
the boy, who'd got his freedom, who'd be happy with some coin and an escort out of the free zone. 
Then he'd go back to the hostel and wait 

She wasn't there. No Jihan, no boy. He looked around cursorily, then more thoroughly, 
searching first in anger (composing his scathy critique of her behavior) and then in earnest. But he 
couldn't find them. No one remembered seeing them and not even Rankan gold could jog their 
memories. Jihan was not easy to missher stature, her swagger, her expensive mail. He didn't like 
this turn of events one bit. 

As the waning moon crawled across the sky, and he couldn't find her, he began to worry. The 
boy's gray eyes, wizard eyes, danced in his inner sight. Halfway around the perimeter of the camp, 
turning sleeping bodies and corpses too new to stink, a voice came out of the gloom behind him: 


"Riddler!" 

"Riddler!" 

"By the god's seething eye...I'd thought it was a poor joke" Grillo was tall, well set-up, a 
Rankan of the upper class. His hair was light brown, and his skin was pale, the bones under it 
well-formed, and the mind in that handsome head quick and cold; his kind always prided 
themselves on being able to blend into any population and anticipate the strategy and tactics of their 
enemies. But here, despite his ragged mantle and some artfully smeared dirt on his boots and soot 
on his brow, he stood out like a torchlit statue of the god. 

And he knew it: "I shouldn't be in here; all perdition's breaking loose in town tonight. Come, let's 
get very drunk andah, you don't drink well, I'll get drunk and you can watch and we'll talk 
things over" A hand on Tempus's arm, he guided him toward an ill-lit section of the perimeter 
wall. "I still don't believe it's you" 

"It is, and it's not. I've fallen into disrepute. I'll drink my share. But I've lost my traveling 
companion" He described Jihan. 

Grillo chuckled. "That's what I heard, the description I got, all right. I didn't believe the report." 
He whistled piercingly through his teeth. A quartet of beggars who had been fighting over a refuse 
pile got to their feet; a pair of male prostitutes left potential customers with whom they'd been 
haggling and sauntered their way. "Gentlemen," Grillo said when the prostitutes accosted them, "this 
is a friend of mine, who's lost his girl." He described Jihan in more detail than Tempus had to him. 
"See what you can do. We'll be at my place." 

The prostitutes swished their scarves and made kissing noises, and Grillo shouted at them to stay 
out of his way or they'd lose the tools of their trade. 

As they headed toward the deepest of the wall's shadows, the four beggars followed. "Yours?" 
Tempus asked. 

"Them? Sure, yes. And what of yours? Sacred Banders and such?" 

"You know, then?" 

"My business is hearing things. Believing them is another matter. We've trouble with the 
mercenary hordeskeeping them on our side and off the townspeople's necks. If you're going to 
be here awhile, perhaps we could work a trade service for service, like the old days." 

"This is a nice little staging area you've got here," Tempus remarked as they entered the blackest 
shadows, and out of them voices asked for passwords and, receiving them, suggested that they 
"step right this way, lords." 

"Is that what I've got? Maybe I'll need it, with you here. What happened to your face?" 

"A little disagreement with a witch or two. That's why I'm here. My people are coming 
upcountry a few at a time. We've a score to settle with Datan and his crew, witch taunts aside. One 
of my men" 

"I heard. This way." Grillo ducked through a postern gate, taking Tempus's hand and pressing it 
to the lintel which was so low they had to bend nearly double. 

When they'd come through and out, they were beyond the free zone's curving wall of rubble 
faced with stone. "So, you were saying that your cohort is coming?" 

"A few at a time." 

"Again, I could use them, and you. This way" 

Tempus paced the Rankan officer until they were out of the wall's shadows, and two men came 


up leading horses. 

up leading horses. 

Tempus mounted and Grillo pulled his horse up beside: "My house isn't safe for this sort of thing; 
no one's is. Damn wizards have spies everywhere. We'll just ride around until we're thirsty. You 
didn't answerassist me, and I'll return the favor." 

They rode until the specifics were ironed out: Tempus would help Grillo keep order among the 
unruly mercenary contingent, lend his Sacred Banders for special assignment; Grillo would help 
Tempus find Jihan, put him in touch with various special agents, but: "As far as the Successors go, I 
think your own Nikodemos, if it's the same Nikoashy hair, good fighter, western-trainedis your 
best hope. He's fought with them. They don't like me, I can't imagine why." Teeth gleamed in the 
dark. "Unless it's that I can't pay them the way I used to be able to this is one damnably 
expensive revolution. We're down to contingency funding; every six months Ranke evaluates us. 
One of these times, they're going to decide it's cheaper to turn Tyse over to the Mygdonians as an 
object lesson to Machad and the other buffer states. But, for the rest of it, I'll work with you. We'll 
share information; we'll find your friend; we'll get the Nisibisi warlord. To that end, I have what 
might be a pleasant surprise for you." "Which is?" 

"A Mygdonian general, Lacan Ajami's brother, no less. Came in tonight seeking asylum. Seems 
the Nisibisi warlord Osprey, they call him" "Datan." 

"Whoever he had the general up in the high keeps; the man's eldest son died in mysterious 
circumstances while on guard duty; his wife went blind; his youngest son disappeared. He's had 
enough, so he says. Wants to help us convince Lacan he's got the wrong alliesget him to join with 
us and destroy the Nisibisi mages once and for all. Then, he thinks, a real treaty could be drafted." 
"I'll talk to him." 

"There's one problem." Grillo pulled up his horse. Tempus followed suit. "What's that?" "You 
You were working for that Rankan faction down in Sanctuary, the one that thinks Kadakithis might 
make a good puppet emperornow, let me finish. I can't get involved in anything seditious. Assure 
me you're not here on their" 

"I'm not. I'm here to avenge, and to war. You don't trust me, after all these years?" 

"I trust that if you're here, there's a good reason. Your word's enough for me. We'll make an 
end to the mages of Nisibis, and show Mygdonia where her salvation lies." He held out his hand. 

Tempus clasped it. "We'll try, you mean." 

"We'll do it. I don't put my hand or commit my men to what I don't expect to accomplish." 

The general's name was Adrastus. Tempus didn't need more than a moment to ascertain that the 
man's grief was real: it went deeper than his rent garments and flamed hotter than his red-rimmed 
eyes. In Grillo's commodious quarters, an estate requisitioned by the army but still housing the 
Tysian widow whose property it was, they drank watered wine and the general, embittered and 
drunk, his mail cast aside and his linen undershirt hanging out over his belt, lamented at length the 
wages of complicity with warlocks. 

"Adrastus means 'the inescapable," does it not?" Tempus asked him in an infrequent pause when 
the general's cup was empty. The room in which they drank was small and window-less; Grillo had 
tacked sheepskins, fleece wallward, over every inch of it to decrease the possibility of 
eavesdropping. The hides still reeked of tanning. 

"Does, yes. And I'd better be. God's," he turned, "my wifemy sons There's nothing those 
adepts won't do. They think they've got me by the balls, having my youngest in their power. But he's 
nothe'sHe might be" Adrastus swore and refilled his cup with a shaking hand; the wine 


spilled over onto his bare feet. "My wife's still up there." He gazed northward as if, through the roof, 
he could see the looming heights of Wizardwall. "It's better if they slay her. Blind as a bat." 

spilled over onto his bare feet. "My wife's still up there." He gazed northward as if, through the roof, 
he could see the looming heights of Wizardwall. "It's better if they slay her. Blind as a bat." 

"Tow-headed, like his mother. Funny eyes. Don't like to dwell on where he might have got 
themgray like dead winter sky. But they say he's gone run off" 

"In the morning," Grillo interjected gently, "our general here is going back up there. The tale will 
be that he rode all night, seeking the boy, found nothing, but outrode his guilt, if not his grief. He'll go 
from there back to Lacan and we'll wait for word Agreed?" 

General Adrastus Ajami agreed. Tempus thought about the boy Jihan had befriended in the free 
zone, and said nothing. When the patrols came in at dawn, no one had seen or heard from her. By 
then, he was sequestered in Grillo's chapel, lamenting his curse and waiting for the god to speak. 

The silence which answered each of his increasingly impolite solicitations was eloquent; it 
occurred to him that he wanted just thisthat he was beyond the point where gods or even 
entelechies could help him, that he'd managed to give new meaning to the term "irredeemable": if 
Jihan was gone lost, wounded, hostage, defected, or merely distractedit was a manifestation of 
his curse. All the lords of all the heavens pleading in unison couldn't have persuaded him that any 
cause was worth what would follow if Stormbringer's daughter were hurt on his account. And if she 
was simply gonethis, too, was his curse in action. If he'd come to care for her, much as he'd tried 
to avoid it, then acrimonious separation, at the very least, was their lot: she'd spurn him, disdain him. 
But that was better than her fate if she loved him. 

He'd gone back to the mercenaries' hostel, on the off chance he'd find her there, and found that 
both Trsbreds were gone. He'd thought again of the boy and sworn loudly enough to bring a 
stablehand running, who could recall no armored, muscled woman. But then, Tempus' voiced 
frustration had waked himhe was still rubbing sleep from dazed and bleary eyes. 

So Tempus berated the gods, but refrained from calling Stormbringerhe'd as soon not bring 
the Weather Gods' father bad news 

In the little chapel, he performed a lengthy ritual. It was a chapel to the war gods, the lords of 
death and conquest; on its altar were all things necessary to sharpen the tools of war and make 
weaponry's leathers supple. Intermittently snorting first-grade krrf that Grillo had pressed on him, he 
worked, on his knees, putting an edge to cut a groundward-floating hair upon his sharkskin-hilted 
sword. 

While about his "prayers" he heard a sound, looked around to see the Tysian widow, whose 
grounds these were, sidle in. She was tawny, with brown hair and eyes, fine and purely human. 
Without thought to Grillo's claim on her or what their relationship might be, he bade her come to 
him. A woman in the Storm Lords' temple could only want one thing. And, whether she knew it or 
not, or wished it or not, he was glad to give it to her; if a sacrifice was needed to clear his path or 
change his fate or merely change his mind, and make him content to wield his power without 
blaming what he did on gods, he'd make it. In the streets he'd traveled here from the mercenaries' 
guild he'd seen three armed confrontations: one between two civilian factions, one between civilians 
and drunken soldiers, and one broken up with sure precision by a practiced squad of Grillo's 
"specials." He was, right then, content to stay awhile in Tyse. 

For preparing to shed mageblood, nothing was better than a wench to sanctify all morose 
endeavor with her fear and lust and sweat. 

* * * 

Grillo had long known from his informants in the Tysian chapter of the Rankan mageguild that 


Tempus was intent on coming north; the adepts' network brought him news quicker than the fastest 
mounted relays. But that news was enchanter-edited and sorcerer-censored. Often he could not 
believe it; seldom was it free from the prejudice of Hazards and their kind. 

Tempus was intent on coming north; the adepts' network brought him news quicker than the fastest 
mounted relays. But that news was enchanter-edited and sorcerer-censored. Often he could not 
believe it; seldom was it free from the prejudice of Hazards and their kind. 

At the rock marker which signified the end of Tysian sovereignty, Grillo pulled up his horse in 
the twilight and whistled. A mournful jackal's laugh was his only answer. He kicked his horse's ribs 
and it picked its way across the stony black soil of Nisibis, soil that on his right and left for five miles 
across and nearly fifty miles northward was called "Free Nisibis" and controlled, with sword and 
fury, by Bashir's Successor militia. A hundred feet into Free Nisibis, he halted, slid off his horse, got 
a wineskin from his saddlebag and settled down to wait in the dark with only the rising sliver of the 
last-quarter moon to illuminate his position. 

when stone struck against stone to his left he clutched his swordhilt but sat unmoving, tracking 
by the sounds it made a furry form which rose up from behind a tumble of boulders. 

As it came close enough for Grille to see the soot-smeared limbs of a man under the pelt, three 
others with similar helmets of jackal heads and mantles of jackal fur slunk into view, crouched low, 
attentive shadows among the rocks. 

Grille's horse snorted at the smell of cured jackal hide and a blackened face well known to the 
Tyse station's chief intelligence officer split into a gleaming grin. A long-nailed hand stretched out 
and Grille grasped it: "Bashir." 

"Grille." The fur-clad figure with the soft baritone voice which made Nisi sibilances sound like 
autumn winds rattling the trees squeezed his hand, pushing something into it, unclasped it, and folded 
into a squat. 

Grille put the lump of high-mountain pulcis, most rare and coveted of drugs, into his belt, 
thanked the Successors' leader in ritual fashion, and in his turn laid a hide-wrapped dagger in 
Bashir's palm. Gifts exchanged, Grille broached the subject concerning him to Bashir: "You will 
meet with the Riddler?" 

"My father's friend? How can I not?" 

"By considering that if you sit with him, you sit with Rankans." 

"I sit with you." 

"I've proven my intentions. I can't vouch for his." 

"You've proved a good friend, and I will consider your warning. How goes the battle for the 
town?" 

"Well enough. The woman whose description I senthave you seen her?" 

"With a boy, yes? No, we saw none such. But we saw horses make the hard climbup the trail 
of tears. If that was she, she's gone to the wizards' high keeps, and they smoothed her pathno 
unaided horse could make that climb." 

"Thank you. That sounds about right." Grillo rose up, stiff-kneed. "About the RiddlerI'm 


uneasy." 

uneasy." 

"So I'm told." 

"Then we will wait and see what Niko has to say." Bashir rose also and stepped close to him, so 
close Grillo could smell the onions on his breath and see, in the residing moon's light, Bashir's 
sardonic smile. The commando continued: "When and if we meet them, we will have forgotten your 
name." 

"Good enough, then. Die on your feet, Bashir." 

"And you, Grillo," Bashir replied, backing away without a sound. In the space of a dozen 
heartbeats, he was gone, melting into the night he commanded. 

Grillo, mounting up, hurried. Since the Riddler's companion, Jihan, had disappeared, freak 
storms had pummeled Tyse. The wind, picking up as he headed his horse south toward the town, 
was wet and wild. He urged his horse into a lope. If hail or mistral came tonight, it would clear the 
streets. The death toll, since Tempus had arrived, had doubledno direct fault of the man who 
served rapacious gods, but circumstances in keeping with his nature. 

And Grillo, who feared few men and dared to dispute with mages who should live free and who 
should pay wizards' tithe, wished fervently (if he'd a god he trusted, he'd have prayed) that Tempus 
would just disappear, drift back the way he'd come, or on to one of the other beleaguered border 
states where Grillo had nothing at stake. 

But the chances of that were less than of adepts forgetting how to change shape or how to fly. 
Tempus was here, and somehow Grillo was going to have to bring him into his confidence or 
compromise him so that efforts to aid the Successors need not be curtailed. If there was a hope 
alive in Upper Ranke to flout the mages and withstand Mygdonian expanson, it lay in the person of 
Bashir, not in the senile Rankan empire, or in hateful and self-serving gods. 

* * * 

Feral and thick as mageblood, a fog rolled down from the high peaks, turning the night pale like 
phosphorescent foam. 

In it, the Trs horses picked their way slowly, and in it the boy, Shamshi, talked loudly of his 
mother and his brother at home and everything but his fear that they were lost. 

Jinan knew the truth of it, and it troubled her. Her distress might have been the cause of the thick 
fog, called by the boy and the indigenous hillmen "whiteout" because naught could be seen through 
it, and sounds were misdirected by it, and most of humankind stayed still under it, afraid to stumble 
or become befuddled in it. But Jihan had been lost for a day and more, now, and her temper was 
roused, her pride piqued, and even, down deep, something very much like uneasiness stirred in her. 
Weather was her ally; water, her particular talisman. But the water in the fog was not helpful. They'd 
been lost since yesterday afternoon, and now another day was gone. 

Shamshi swore they were traveling in circles; his gray eyes wide, and his lips blue with cold. 
When they stopped to eat, he'd gritted out his fears through chattering teeth, golden head to her 
breast while she stroked his hair. 

He wanted his mother; she wished she were enough. He wanted his warm Mygodonian bedit 
was his bloodline that had convinced her that to help Tempus, to prove herself more than the 
overprivileged amateur he thought her to be, she had only to return this lost waif to his highborn 
Mygdonian family. Then, once she'd made a friend on the far side of Wizard wall, Tempus would 
see that she was worthy. She might solve all disputes for him, bring peace to the fragile, waning 


mortals whose only solution to their own suffering was to inflict the same upon others. She'd meant 
well. 

mortals whose only solution to their own suffering was to inflict the same upon others. She'd meant 
well. 

She considered calling upon her father, but that, too, was an admission of failure, of inadequacy, 
of the disaster she and the boy, in common, feared most of all: they wanted respect from their 
elders. 

She wished the power obstructing her would show itself. In direct confrontation, face to face, no 
adept or even archmage could daunt her. 

But they were too wise for that. No demon descended from the heavens, though occasionally an 
eagle cried or a wild hound bayed at the moon she couldn't see. And the Trs horses, withers 
quivering with unspoken remonstrance, plodded determinedly onward, heads down, nostrils wide 
and snuffling to judge by smell alone that there was solid ground where they would next put their 
hooves. 

When the great crenelated keep of black stone rose out of the opaque mists as if it had been 
fashioned by some god's hand at that very moment, Shamshi gave a little cry of relief and urged her 
toward it: "My mother; my father! You will meet my father, Jihan!" 

And as he prattled his relief, all her doubts bled away. She was anxious to succeed, though the 
Trs horses were not. They set their haunches and raised their heads and, smelling the sorcery she 
could feel like carnivorous gnats upon her skin, whinnied loudly in complaint when she urged them 
forward so that at length they had to dismount and lead them up and in across a narrow bridge over 
a precipitous defile filled with writhing smoke and deep with echoes from pebbles skittering down 
when Tempus' Trs, which she led, balked halfway across. So, as she had seen the Riddler do, she 
tore a strip from her undershirt and blindfolded him, hurrying, as the boy implored, to her meeting 
with his sire. 

* * * 

Having nothing better to do, Tempus had taken to stalking with one of Grille's six-man teams, 
the first night under their leader, to learn the ins and outs of Tysian brigandry, thereafter as their 
leader. They broke up gatherings of more than three on any street and pulled rabblerousers off their 
boxes; they chased down a pair of Nisibisi agents and brought them in where Ran! an mages 
performed the equivalent of putting salt upon their tailsbinding them with holding spells so that 
when they returned to consciousness they couldn't change their shapes and disappear, slipping the 
strongest temporal chains. 

From that pair, information had come of a nest of spies, southwest of the free zone, disguised as 
nobles holed up in the Outbridge district in an estate hectares wide and walled and fortified so that 
its inhabitants could hold off an army for months, unaided. 

The team was well-honed, three of them seasoned mercenaries, the other three Rankan 
specialists in guerrilla warfare. They scaled the estate's walls in silence, poisoning as many dogs as 
possible, first with meat thrown over, and, all in blacks with weapons sheathed to hide their glitter 
and every piece of metal which might clink or jangle wrapped in dark cloth, they made their way 
toward the main house, crossbows drawn and quarrels tipped with poison drawn from almond 
shells. 

This night action didn't sate, but suited, a man in his position. He'd cursed Jihan when he couldn't 
find her. Like the gods, she had deserted him. He put her, six times and more each day, firmly out 


of mind. 

of mind. 

She had, but that was beside the point. Women come in as many varieties as horses, and this 
one was an activist, a fierce sort who'd been born to the Tysian insurrection and took his arrival as a 
sign that the Lord Storm, her own patron, had sanctified their struggle for freedom, and his 
willingness to strip her and split her as a sublime affirmation of her writ. 

He'd felt manipulated, after, but gotten good information from her. And he'd made, despite his 
intentions, a friend who, if she could be believed, he could count on "as Grillo does, my lord." 

He had enough troubles without a "friend" in Tyse, but he'd let it pass without a word. She was 
tough and she was knowledgeable of the environs. She might prove useful, or prove to be a gift of 
conciliation from gods who, for their own reasons, would not come to him or speak with him. He 
didn't expect her to live much longer, since she craved his company, but even that, he didn't say. 

Out here, among the troops, he took revenge upon the town and even upon the godsEnlil, 
who snubbed him; Vashanka, left behind but not forgottenand on the mages whose forebears had 
bequeathed him his current plight. 

The inner court, now that the team had reached it, was dotted with statuary bearing panniers 
filled with burning oil. They doused as many as they dared with sand, but left the balance, slinking 
along in shadows, skulking their way, weapons drawn and armored backs tight to walls, toward the 
stone manse in the estate's center. 

Half a dozen outbuildings remained to be passed by when a tower guard thought he saw a 
movement and called down to unseen companions to "look sharp by the stables, there!" and 
someone whistled for the dogs. 

He'd given orders for this contingency; they all split up and scattered. They'd meet at the back 
door of the house, where a root cellar used for covert meetings had its own wooden bulkhead. 
They'd brought naptha preparations and incendiaries made from a crude concoction rolled up in 
parchment: they meant to roast the Nisibisi agents where they huddled under ground. 

A pair of greaves, ill oiled, squeaked as their owner tried to sneak, unheard, round a corner. 
Tempus met him with a sword which once glowed pink but now, bereft of godly sanction, merely 
killed. 

Whether the armored chest he cleaved had magical protection, he could not tell for certain; the 
blue tinge he thought he saw was as faint as witchfire. The man dropped without a sound and 
Tempus stepped over, wrenching his blade from a chest reluctant to release it. 

And then, from somewhere, barking split the night and shouts commencedhis men, letting 
others know they'd been discovered, and he moved to slide within a doorway and wait until the 
furor died. 

But something four-legged, white teeth and spiked collar gleaming, leaped at him without a single 
sound. This "dog," who neither growled nor barked, was near his own weight, and its claws were 
sharp as daggers. He was bowled over by its charge and on the ground he wrestled it, his hands, 
despite the spikes, gripping its straining neck and, at last, snapping its spine. 

Then he left, running, headed toward the sounds of battle: now that they were found out, the 
odds were hard against his team and he thought to even them. 

Before him (as he dodged a whickering weapon, not looking up to see if spear or bolt or flying 
wing had sped by next to his cheek), for just a moment, two great red orbs like cat's eyes were 


visible and a bone-chilling snarl echoed inside his head, a snarl he remembered from his fight above 
the Sanctuary mageguild. 

visible and a bone-chilling snarl echoed inside his head, a snarl he remembered from his fight above 
the Sanctuary mageguild. 

What he saw when he reached the battleground was not a group of men who held two of his, or 
three, at bay, but three gray and stinking fiends, each with a soldier in its jaws or claws: one tearing 
out a living liver from a screaming man; one using a human head as a battering ram, running 
repeatedly against the high stone wall, the helpless soldier in his grip no longer conscious; one 
committing atrocities on a recumbent form, while over the proceedings a winged demon, 
copper-skinned and glowing in the night, hovered in mid air, urging the fiends to better sport. 

And into this he charged, sword sheathed, crossbow aimed high at the demon, inhuman 
commander of nearly mindless fiends. He put three bolts into it in quick succession; one through 
each wing, one through a hellish eye. 

And as he'd hoped, the demon fixed on him and, its flight erratic, its judgment of space and 
distance skewed because of the bolt which skewered its eye, gave a howl and came at him, flapping 
downward in drunken circles and calling out more of Tempus' names than any demon not sent to 
confront him could have known. 

He'd stopped the fiends, though, who hesitated, without supervision, crouching down where 
they were to gorge themselves on the dead they had in hand, paying no attention to his three 
remaining men who had a chance now to fight the humans running to engage them. Tempus had just 
time enough to use his speed to their advantage (loosing four quarrels which reduced the odds by 
dropping three human guards and one immense wolflike dog who came careening around the 
corner, others, smaller, in its wake) before the demon closed with him in grappling battle, 
descending on him hard and fast and penetrating his mundane armor with sulpherous claws. 

Its breath was stinking and corrosive; its undamaged eye was yellow, and as they fought and 
rolled there in the dirt it spoke to him of unearthly dooms and eternal service to a mage named 
Datan, and how long he would regret his impulse to save "useless, mortal fools" which had led him 
to sheath his able sword and use the crossbow when, if he'd any hope at all, the sword was 
itresidually "tainted" with supernal power. 

He got a knee upon one wing, though its jaws clamped on his shoulder, and tried to roll them 
over. He heard the wing snap and rend, the demon howl around the mouthful of his flesh it had. He 
felt its fangs grate against his collarbone and its spittle, as demon's spittle will, begin to do its work, 
making him weak and woozy, forgetful of the need to fight. 

As darkness closed in upon him, he made a gargantuan effort to draw his sword, got it partly out 
and then, only half pretending, went limp and lay quite still. He felt the demon shudder, he heard a 
voice from far above, calling the demon's name as hot drool fell upon his throat and its teeth clacked 
near to his jugular. 

The voice, a mage's, commanding the demon: "Cease!" was the only chance he might ever have. 
Tempus wondered, briefly, in a shattered second, whether his slowed regeneration could save him if 
the demon bit out his throat, and then what sort of afterlife he'd earned, and whether the mage he 
heard could keep him from it. 

Then, in one last effort, nauseous from loss of blood and dizzy and willing his eyes to focus, he 
lunged backward in the demon's grip and broke its hold. 

His sword came out of his scabbard, and his eyes came open, and though he could hardly see 
for the sweat in his eyes and the blood stinging his face and the narcotizing demon spittle coursing 
his blood, he struck out at it with his sharkskin-hilted blade and connected with its neck, a crosscut 


that cleaved down from right to left, through the collarbone and spinal column, so that as he thrust it 
off and scrambled back, to gain his knees, he saw the ground round about begin to steam and 
smoke, then bubble like hot-springs' mud as the demon's blood ran upon it and beyond, he saw two 
manlike feet take retreating steps. 

that cleaved down from right to left, through the collarbone and spinal column, so that as he thrust it 
off and scrambled back, to gain his knees, he saw the ground round about begin to steam and 
smoke, then bubble like hot-springs' mud as the demon's blood ran upon it and beyond, he saw two 
manlike feet take retreating steps. 

Its hands raised. Its finger pointed. Ball lightning jumped from the extended digit to run up the 
Riddler's sword and shock him numb and senseless. 

He knew he was crumpling. He felt the dirt hit his knees and with an effort of will went down no 
further. He raised his head and blinked and tried to meet the eyes of the wizard, but the shape was 
fading away, going to mist, going to wisp, until only a voice was left: "You want your woman back, 
Riddler? Your superhuman female toy? Come to me and ask politely, if you live. And bring some 
souls to trade." 

Then there was nothing there, and something like rain began to fall. 

In a howling wind it came, blotting out the scant moonlight and dousing the oil fires on their 
plinths. It was a rain that stung and steamed and made the wounded cry and writhe where they lay 
in the dirt. 

And then beneath the manse and to its rear an explosion roared, flames spewing skyward: one 
soldier, one of the mercenaries, had gotten through and carried out the plan. And the conflagration 
did battle with the caustic tempest from the heavens. In its light, Tempus, his hands above his head 
and his head to the earth, noticed that the rain yet falling was blood red. 

It was some little time before he gathered enough strength to fight off the debilitating effects of 
the demon spittle in his system and the dizziness the loss of his own blood caused, and took stock 
of his wounds before trying with his one good arm, using his sword as a lever, to gain his feet. 

Having done so, he stood weaving among the corpses of men and dogs, garish and horrid in the 
fire's light, and took slow, painful steps toward them to see if any of his lived yet. 

Thus it was that, as his blood began to clot in the cauterizing heat from the fire and he wiped his 
brow with a sticky hand, he looked upward into the heavens (expecting to see dark clouds or 
eagles circling, more demons, the absent fiendsanything but what he saw) and met Jinan's 
father's blood-red eyes peering down at him. 

He raised his sword to his brow then, knowing that it was Stormbringer's intervention which had 
dissuaded the Osprey from finishing him, capturing him, or further cursing him on the spot. 

It was nice to know that Datan feared something. 

"Stormbringer," he called, shouting loud above the roaring blaze, weaving, hardly a heroic figure 
at that moment, his torn flesh showing the shoulder bones beneath and his stance chancy, "my 
thanks." 

By the time he'd finished speaking, the luminous eyes had faded from the sky and a soldier was 
trotting toward him, helmet held by its strap because of the ferocious heat, his weapons sheathed, 
stripping off his breastplate as he came. 

The mercenary took one squinting look at Tempus, slowed, came the rest of the way with naked 
incredulity on his face as he surveyed the carnage and his task force leader. 

"Need some help, there, commander?" He stopped, a few lengths away, his gaze fastened on 
wounds that should have been incapacitating, if not fatal. Some men don't know they're dead for an 
hour or so, commit feats of valor beyond reason in the field, then die when the fervor fades away. 


His expression said he thought Tempus in such a state, dead but just not aware of it, about to keel 
over in his tracks. 

His expression said he thought Tempus in such a state, dead but just not aware of it, about to keel 
over in his tracks. 

After a time the mercenary came to him: one would live, one craved a quick death, the others 
had secured one. Arid: "Fiends! Where are the accursed fiends? Or am I mad, or spellbound? 
There were fiends weren't there? And a winged thing? Copper colored? And some damn huge 
dog?" 

"There were. As for where they are, be grateful they aren't here. Find some horses." From the 
stable, nervous pounding and a few whinnies of fear could be heard as the horses sensed and 
smelled the fire. "Make a litter for the wounded man and let's go home." 

"Yes, m'lord!" The soldier's gratitude was heartfelt. He met Tempus' eyes, tearing his gaze from 
the left arm dangling uselessly, chewed and broken. He opened his mouth as if to say something 
more, closed it, shook his head, and trotted away, calling back: "I'll just see if our own horses aren't 
still around here, somewhere" 

By the time he had a chance to question the young mercenary at length, Tempus was terribly 
cold, but he was able to determine that the Nisibisi agents they'd come here seeking had either 
slipped away or been incinerated. Whichever, he thought he could use this place to billet his cohort 
when it arrived, and gave orders to that effect. 

Then he collapsed in the soldier's arms. 

* * * 

The moon was in its dark phase when Niko reined in his bay before a roadside inn called the 
Shepherd's Crook. Its torchlit sign proclaimed in incised gilded letters that it offered the "Last Bed 
And Board Before Tyse" and this was so: Tyse's suburbs were no more than two hours ride to the 
north east. Even from this vantage, as he dismounted and tied his among a dozen other horses, he 
could see Wizardwall's wards flickering, blue and intermittent, against the cleaner dark of the 
star-dusted night. 

He hesitated before the inn's oak and fieldstone threshold, stroking his pregnant mare's muzzle, 
fiddling with the feedbag he slipped on it: he was feeding her oats and corn, twice what he gave the 
bay, but she was losing weight daily. He felt the now-familiar twinge of guilt. Whatever had 
possessed him to ride her out of Sanctuary? 

He went around her, his hand sliding along her trail-sharpened croup, extracted his moneybelt 
from where he habitually secreted it between the bay's saddle and the sheepskin he used for a 
saddleblanket, trying not to think about Wizard-wall glimmering against the sky or any of the old 
and painful memories these roads south of Tyse evoked. He was confronting as many ghosts here 
as he'd become used to meeting in his rest-place. But unlike Tamzen and her friends or his 
deceased left-side leader, these shades weren't friendly. 

He'd smeared the cuirass Akelon had given him with ashes and grease from his cookfires; now 
he struggled into it, fastened its buckles, took his helmet from the rosette on his saddle and, 
propping it under his arm, climbed the steps and pushed open the door. 

The Shepherd's Crook had changed since last he'd corne this way: whitewashed walls had been 
paneled over with weathered planks; weapons long past service hung over the fieldstone hearth 
which dominated the wall opposite the bar. There were tables now, a score or more, and chairs 


instead of benches. The floor's sawdust was clean and he didn't recognize anyonenot the three 
serving wenches or the athletic, hatchet-faced man with shoulder-length black hair who presided 
behind the bar. 

instead of benches. The floor's sawdust was clean and he didn't recognize anyonenot the three 
serving wenches or the athletic, hatchet-faced man with shoulder-length black hair who presided 
behind the bar. 

He scanned the crowd as he made his way among the tables: a threesome of Rankan garrison 
soldiers, noncommissioned officers by their devices; six in the unadorned leathers of hill-born 
fighters sporting the braided sidelocks of Free Nisibis, backs to the wall and watching him closely; 
three tables hosting two guild mercenaries each, talking softly, their eclectic armor and weapons 
gleaming with polish and oil in the flames from tapers in sconces above on the walls; two men in 
civilian garb: one with the short suede cloak and linen, ankle-length breeches of Tysian style and one 
whose tunic was a dusty moire silk a merchant of some kind, plumed hat and all. 

He positioned himself at the bar so he could study the mercenaries' faces, ordered Tysian white 
wine, neat, paid with a Rankan Imperial, and got more change than he'd expected, commented, 
learned from the bartender that the exchange rate these last weeks favored Ranke, and listened, as 
he sipped, to the talk along the bar, where three young brash farm boys and two inveterated 
drinkers with wine-dark noses leaned precariously. 

He'd almost decided not to eat here, not to pursue the matter which had prompted him to stop 
in, when a girl came from the kitchen bearing a tray on which bowls of meat-and-dumpling stew 
steamed provocatively. "Any more of that?" he asked the barman, and the big man in homespuns 
cocked his head and squinted before he answered, "Yes, if m'guest will have a seat. And wouldya 
be wanting bread with it, or rice or winter wheat?" 

"Wheat." Guest in Tyse was a title which conferred privilege: a guest, here, was protected like a 
family member. Even an enemy, if he was accepted as a guest, was succorded. 

When he'd taken an empty table in a corner by a half-open window paned with skin, and one of 
the girls came to bring his order, he asked her if the owner was about. She pointed to the bartender 
and replied in Rankene thick with Tysian accent that "you're lookin' at 'im, sirrah." 

The contemptuous form of address made him meet her eyes, and these were gray and 
hollow-deep, familiar tunnels, not the hopeless, tired eyes of a serving wench likely to be one of the 
comforts the house extended to its boarders. She thumped the bowl down before him and as she 
picked up her tray he grabbed her wrist. "Do I know you?" 

She looked down at his hand, tugged against his grip: "You'll not have the chance if you don't let 
me loose, sirrah. That's my husband there." She tossed her black-haired head, let the tray clatter to 
his table, crooked her finger at the bartender. The man, throwing down his rag, came out from 
behind the bar. 

Niko released her and rubbed his eyes. "I'msorry, mistress. You reminded me of someone" 
She'd reminded him of the witch, of Roxane. He couldn't say that, and her husband was hulking 
now, both fists on Niko's table. "Trouble? Wife? Guest?" 

The woman was retreating, leaving Niko to answer to it, not saying a word, just her laughter 
sounding, transiently, in the suddenly quiet rooma light, trilling, tinkle, not the bray of an alehouse 
workwife. And he couldn't recall her face, just her eyes 

"Well, guest?" The man leaned close. "I came hereThe man who owned this place before you 
was my mother's brother. I've been abroad for years, thought I'd stop in to visit. I don't have much 
family not in the north, not in Ranke. Would you know where they've gone, him and his family?" 


"To the gods, Nisibisi style. Bought the place at auction nine months back. What's this got to do 
with her?" His sharp chin jutted in the direction the woman had gone, through the swinging doors 
behind the bar. 

"To the gods, Nisibisi style. Bought the place at auction nine months back. What's this got to do 
with her?" His sharp chin jutted in the direction the woman had gone, through the swinging doors 
behind the bar. 

The man straightened up and the smell of garlic faded: "Sorry, not a chance of that. But since 
you expected a free meal and won't get one, take a flagon of wine on the house, guest." 

Still guest. It was odd, but he accepted. He hadn't been close to his mother's brotherit had 
been his father's twin, a krrf dealer in Caronne, who'd bought him free and sent him to Bandara 
when Niko had been taken as a serf by a Rankan officer after the sack that had made him an 
orphan. No other members of his immediate family had been as lucky. This uncle had spared his 
loved ones by going to his knees to kiss Rankan boots. 

Rankans, Nisibisi, Mygdonians or the sea-raiding Beysibsthere was no choice among them: 
all sides are evil if you're not on them. 

He ate, paid, and got out of there, the food making him tired, and the wine making him 
depressed. As he was tightening the bay's girth and preparing to mount, the sound of sandals 
slapping stone made him turn, hand on hilt. The group of six mercenaries was descending the stairs. 
He heard the name 'Tempus" and the word "hostel", and then they saw him watching them. Their 
conversation ceased. 

Silently, the men who had been talking in the multilingual patois of guild mercenaries approached 
their horses; as they did so, he found himself surrounded: two mounted men behind him, one on 
either side of his own two horses, and two who came up to the rail and leaned on it. 

One said, "Life to you, brother," in Machadi, cautiously but firmly. They weren't curious on a 
whim, Niko realized. They were going to roust him, ask for his papers (he carried none) or of his 
business here, or"These horses have been a long way, fighter. Where from? Where to?" 

He didn't want trouble. He thought of the crossbow in the bay's saddlebag, wrapped in hide, too 
well hidden and protected to be accessible quickly enough to help him. But he didn't want to 
announce himself. Not yet. He'd heard the Riddler's name from one of these; he wished he'd heard 
the context. 

"From the south. To the hostel. Looking for hire," he responded in the same tongue. 

"Plenty of your sort, boy," the second said. "Your face says you haven't been faring too well in 
your warring. No room for youngsters in this battle. Go home and practice another few years. It's 
seniors only at the guild hostel, if that's where you're headed. And seniority's something you're not 
likely to have." Niko shrugged, "It's a big war," and swung up on his bay, the mare's tether in hand. 
He wrapped it twice around his saddlehorn, simultaneously telling the bay: "Back, back," in 
Rankene. 

But the seconda portly, grizzled veterangrabbed the bay's bridle, and the two mounted men 
behind closed in, blocking his retreat. The two others, one on his left and the sixth on the mare's far 
side, crowded him. One of these said, "Let's take him home and see what headquarters makes of 
him. He'll work for some damn faction or other, if he's not already, once he finds out what we've 
said is true." 

Niko let his reins drop, spread his empty hands where all could see. "Life to all, so the saying 
goes. Let's observe it and guild courtesy, if there's any of that this far north. Or ride with me to 
the hostel, if you're not afraid to show your faces there As for mine, it got this way winning, not 
losing." 

It was not the right thing to say, but he didn't want to start explaining. 


"There's a curfew, child. You'll not make it that far without kissing Rankan asses." This was from 
the first, who'd come out from behind the rail and had drawn his sword. "Get down now. Let's have 
a better look at you." 

"There's a curfew, child. You'll not make it that far without kissing Rankan asses." This was from 
the first, who'd come out from behind the rail and had drawn his sword. "Get down now. Let's have 
a better look at you." 

He just didn't have the patience for this sort of thing. Without conscious decision, his booted 
foot kicked up and caught the man at his saddle under the chin. He heard the neck snap back but 
not the succeeding thud. From his belt came throwing stars; with his left hand he cast two: one at the 
closest mounted mercenary, on his right, one at the grizzled companion of the fallen man. By then 
the sword Askeion had given him was drawn in his right, the two remaining stars moved into 
throwing position. "Anyone else?" 

The man he'd kicked was moaning. The two he'd cast at, both throws meant only to wound, 
were clutching thigh and arm, where only the slimmest point of each star protruded. One was 
cursing; the other, the mounted man, was trying to pull the star out of his thigh. 

The men at his rear had their crossbows cocked, however. He'd known this wasn't a good idea, 
but he turned in his saddle: "I've got two of these left, gentlemen. You want to play or you want to 
ride away? If I'd meant it, those two would be dead. You'll get me, maybe, but you won't live long 
enough to boast about it." 

"Who in the god's name are you?" one of the two mounted riders asked intently, face screwed 
up, peering through his crossbow's peep sight, not yet decided. 

"Someone who doesn't want to introduce himself to the wrong people," the other mounted man 
hazarded. 

"That's right. Now get out of my way. Unless these friends of yours get those stars out in the 
next few moments, the poison will kill them before they bleed to death." There was no poison on the 
stars, but Niko wanted to be away. 

The men backed off, muttering among themselves. Niko saw the one he'd kicked make an effort 
to gain his knees, fall back. No casualties, then. 

As he maneuvered his horses between the two who still held him at crossbow's point, he could 
hear one exhort the other: they couldn't just let him go. 

The second was dismounting: "Then go with him, man. I'll stay with these. Wait until Grille hears 
about thisfour men of first tier hire downed by a single teenage delinquent. That is, if he'll allow 
you to accompany him." 

The one still mounted gestured with his bow. "All right with you, fighter? We'll just check your 
credentials, and then if you're bracketed halfway where your skills should put you, we'll see the 
commanders. You really want hire, you'll get it." "Good enough." Niko, taking a chance, sheathed 
his sword. The bowman's slitted eyes were still on his stars as Niko carefully backed his horses the 
rest of the way and the rider came abreast of him. 

"I'm Ari," the mounted man, flipping the lever back to safety-lock his bow, held out his right 
hand. His eyes, in the torchlight, weren't angry; his tone held just a trace of laugher. "And this isor 
wasmy team. That's Haram, thereteam leader of the sortie unit known as" 

"Ari, don't tell him your life story. Find out his. Go on, before these three forget their wounds 
enough to object and we've got to kill him." 

"Life to you, then, leader. And everlasting glory," Niko called softly as he kicked the bay into a 


dispirited lope, still looking back at the man who'd lost a team on his account. It wasn't a good 
beginning, he was certain. 

dispirited lope, still looking back at the man who'd lost a team on his account. It wasn't a good 
beginning, he was certain. 

"West." 

"How many have you?" 

"Enough." 

"All poisoned?" 

"None," Niko lied. On his left hip, six poison-tipped stars rode, undisturbed. 

The other chuckled, then laughed aloud. "Left up here, at this fork. What kind of hire did you 

want?" 

"I can't say yet. I'll see what's offered." The left fork wasn't the quickest way to the mercenaries' 
hostel, which was southeast of town, but he went with his escort. The curfew sounded real enough; 
he didn't want to explain himself to airy Raakan garrison sergeant. 

"I think there'll be something for you, when I tell 'em what I just saw back there. Teach me that? 
The 'stars," I mean?" "Gladly." They rode awhile in silence. Then Ari said: "West? Machad? I never 

saw anything like that there. You speak Machadi." 

"Not Machad." 

"I don't mean to pry Maybe we could use you in our own unit we'll have a vacancy or 

twotemporarily, anyhow." 

"Paired fighters, isn't it?" 

"Some are. You?" 

"Once. No more." 

"Real communicative, aren't you?" 

"I don't know you." 

"You're going to need a friend, someone to speak for you you just put down three men, any 

of whom makes more in a month than you've seen this whole season." 

"Then they're overpaid." 

Again, Ari laughed. "Have you a name, guildbrother? By the gods, I hope you're at least that. If 

you're not in good standing, dues paid up and all, we'll have to do something about all this..." 

"Stealth. And I'm up to date." 

"Good enough, then, Stealth." 

They rode on, west of town, never getting close enough for Niko to see more than the brownish 
haze of lights and smoke that hovered over it. He recognized the Outbridge quarter as their 
destination long before they rode among the upscale estates and the vinehung inns. When they came 
to cobbled ways he asked Ari to slow their pace, saving his horses' hooves. 

They had been riding along a two-story masonry wall topped with outward-curving spikes for a 
while when Ari gestured toward it: "This is it. Gates ahead. If there's some reason you can't give 
your whole name in there, to our field commander or the intelligence chief, you'd better run for your 
freedom now. Inside, there's no chance of it." 


Niko thought seriously about that. If Tempus was this man's quarry, for some reason, and not 
one of the "commanders" then Niko was in serious trouble. 

Niko thought seriously about that. If Tempus was this man's quarry, for some reason, and not 
one of the "commanders" then Niko was in serious trouble. 

Niko said, "This isn't the hostel." 

"We're specials; we don't work out of the hostel." 

They approached the gate, and sentries appeared from the shadows. Ari gave a password and 
some scatological banter was exchanged. Both peltasts looked at Niko but neither questioned him. 
They called within, and a creak and whine of heavy timber over metal sounded. The gate was 
drawn back, revealing a stone corridor through which they must pass single file. In it, they were 
subject to further scrutiny and possible execution through staggered slits in the high walls behind 
which bowmen and spearmen were posted. 

But nothing untoward occurred, and the farther gate was opened. 

Men came running to take their horses in an inner courtyard bright with statuary-borne flames. 
Niko hesitated there: "I'll stay with my horses. Whoever I have to see can come this far. I've come 
far enough." 

An gave him a reproving look and wondered aloud where he'd gotten away with this sort of 
behavior, but jogged off to "bring somebody back to see you." 

Waiting, Niko slipped from the bay and walked his horses in slow circles, cooling them. He 
thought about loosening their girths: he couldn't get out of here if anyone decided to try to prevent 
him. Walls were guarded; he could see the glitter of flame off spearpoints. There had been a fire 
here recently; the stones beneath his feet were blackened and the air about still smelled of it; 
charred wood was piled in a corner. The whole situation reminded him of the early days of the 
Stepsons out at Jubal's. Specials, Ari had said. Well, it could have been worseit could have been 
that he'd run into an army patrol. And everything Ari had saidso far as Niko could tell by ear and 
eye and what use he'd been able to make of his peripheral perceptionhad been true. 

He sensed that the sentries and guardpost personnel were edgy; he was careful to make no 
sudden moves. 

After a time he heard voices; discipline was bowstring-taut here, so it wasn't the guards or the 
sentries. Soon three men came into view. One was Ari; one was in civilian clothes; and one was in 
spartan field armor of unadorned leather and tarnished mail but had no helmet. Both the civilian and 
the officer wore blades. 

Niko stopped his horses and waited, telling them "stay" and dropping the bay's reins and his 
mare's tether. 

When the three came up to him, Ari a little behind the other two, the civilian stepped forward 
and offered his hand: "Stealth, is it? I'm Grille." 

Niko clasped and released it; it had been dry, strong, hard with calluses only swordplay can 
raise. "I remember you, my lord." He met eyes crinkled with amusement and relaxed a bit. This man 
had been a friend of Niko's left-side leader. 

"This is our esteemed Tysian guild representative, Vasili. Vasili, this is Stealth, called 
Nikodemos." 

The guild official saluted him. Niko returned the gesture, not liking the grim countenance of the 
uniformed man. 

"Ari tells us you've put the lie tonight to some of our most overblown reputations," Grillo said 


easily. "I knew we were paying that lot more than they were worth." 

easily. "I knew we were paying that lot more than they were worth." 

"I would have. Ari persuaded me otherwise." 

"And your tour in Sane" 

Grillo elbowed the guild representative in the ribs. 

Vasili was undaunted: "your previous commission? We don't like the way your squadron 
fulfilled its obligation." 

"By the rules, my lord. We did it by the rules." 

"But not the spirit. That's the thing, isn't it? Enough. Grillo, you want him, you've got him. We'll 
work out a pay scale for this crew now that the first of them is here. But don't come to me if they 
slay more within your walls than beyond them. Sacred Bands and elite squadrons aren't what the 
mercenaries' guild is about. Field them at your peril." 

"Fine with me," Grillo said, and the guild representative stalked away. "Well, Niko, I suppose 
you'd like to see the Riddler before you and I have our talk?" 

Not waiting for a reply, Grillo headed off. Niko looked after him, at his horses, at Ari. Ari 
waved him on: "I'll watch them." 

Niko signed his thanks and caught up with Grillo, aware that this could be some elaborate trap: 
Grillo was a canny double-dealer who took ten per cent of everything that passed under his nose 
and whose Rankan allegiance was perfunctory at best. 

Niko could be "seeing" Tempus in a dungeon built for two or a mass grave awaiting more bodies 
to fill it. He tried not to be impressed by the massive masonry of the grounds; he saw further 
evidence of fiery sack: this place had changed hands recently, or withstood an attempt to cause it to 
do so. 

Grillo asked him casual questions; he answered in non se-quiturs until the other man volunteered 
the information that Tempus had sent a message to Bashir, received no reply, and thus would be 
doubly glad to see him: "Both he and I think your old acquaintance with the Successors might be the 
most valuable weapon in our arsenal right now." 

They were climbing wide granite steps; Niko ventured: "So it's 'we'?" 

At the top of them, Grillo answered, "It is. This way." 

Beyond an oak door, reinforced with wrought iron and guarded, was a second, inner court 
where the sack hadn't reached. They entered the low stone building centering it, trod the corridors 
and stairs. Then Grillo stopped: "I'll wait here." He lifted a latch and pushed a door inward. "The 
next door on your right is his and, Niko?" 

"My lord?" 

"Our condolences on the death of" 

"Thank you." He didn't want to talk about it. He turned his back on Grillo and knocked where 
he'd been told to. 

"Come," he heard; the Riddler's gravelly voice was unmistakable. 

The door was unlocked. He pushed it open and paused, shocked by the infirmity of the man on 


the bed. He'd thought Tempus to be indestructible. The man he saw was bristle-chinned and 
sweating, arm in a sling. Around the sharp, long eyes dark shadows hovered. 

the bed. He'd thought Tempus to be indestructible. The man he saw was bristle-chinned and 
sweating, arm in a sling. Around the sharp, long eyes dark shadows hovered. 

Niko did as he was bid, pulling a chair up beside the bed. On a nightstand was a pitcher, two 
goblets standing on their rims, one on its base with wine it it. Tempus picked up that one, bade 
Niko serve himself. Sipping watered wine, he tried to explain what he himself didn't understand: 
"Short cuts. I was delirious part of the time. The mareI brought her, couldn't leave her She 
picked the route. Everyone's coming. Critias ruled that each must find a substitute first to satisfy the 
guild." He knew he was rattling on, but all he could think of was the Riddler's obvious wounds and 
what could have made them. 

"It's all right, Niko. You can relax." 

He saw Tempus's mouth twitch, half a smile dance there. "I had a run-in with some 
Nisibisi-fielded demons and fiends. I'll be well enough in another week or two. Meanwhile" The 
Riddler pushed himself up on one stiff arm, and Niko was reminded of last full moon in Sanctuary, 
when their positions were reversed. " I'm pleased you're here. Jinan's gone, disappeared." 

Niko held the other's gaze, unspeaking. 

"She took both Trs horses." 

"What?" 

"We suspect foul play. Nisibisi magic, possibly." 

"Where? How?" 

"Those are questions I'd like your help answering. Until the other Stepsons come, you are the 
single man I can trust. You know Grille's background?" 

Niko nodded. 

"Then I don't have to explain. These men here, as well as this place, are ours. Mix among them 
and take their measure, but carefully." 

"I will." 

"Too, if you are up to it, I'd ask special favors" 

"Command me." 

"Bashir. I have to meet with him. Personally. You know the free zone?" 

"I knew it once. Better than I'd have liked." 

"Little's changed, I wager. Vouch for me with the Successors." 

Niko smiled at that, shaking his head slightly, a hand gesturing: "Surely there's no need. But if 
you wish?" 

"As in Sanctuary, I'd like you to work apart from these others at first, construct what rationale 
you please; let me know what you need in the way of support and verification. Check in at the guild 
hostel; infiltrate the free zone; find Bashir and convince him to meet with me; come back then and 
tell me where and how." 

"But Grille will know. He said the same to me." "If we can't fool him, we'll have to trust him. You 
had trouble with some of his specials, he told me. You've a reputation for temper. We'll say your 
price was too high, and Sanctuary soured youwith the loss of two partners, it sounds likely 
enough." 


"I'm not sure, commander" He was tired, suddenly. He'd thought he'd get a different 
welcome. He wondered if the Riddler was trying to keep him out of the avenging obviously under 
way. 

"I'm not sure, commander" He was tired, suddenly. He'd thought he'd get a different 
welcome. He wondered if the Riddler was trying to keep him out of the avenging obviously under 
way. 

"That I can" Half into a complaint that he, too, could use a few nights' rest where sleep was 
secure and danger minimal, Niko backed away from it. Before Tempus, he could not show 
weakness. " convince Grille that we've come to a parting of the ways." 

"Just a temporary dispute over wage and accommodation. The guild will rate you below what 
you're worth." 

Squinting at him, Tempus reached under his mattress, pulled forth a pouch, shook it. "Tysian 
currency. Work money, not pay." He tossed it, and Niko caught it in his hand, hefting it. 

"I'd like to leave my mare here, Commander, where she's safe." 

"Take any of mine, then. I'll give orders. And be sure you get a curfew pass before you leave." 

The audience was over, Niko thought. He rose, trying to stand straight, not to look 
disappointed, not to show his hurt. Perhaps Janni and some few others had been right: perhaps the 
Riddler still resented Niko declining his offer of pairbond. He almost offered himself once more to 
Tempus as a right-side fighter, but his commander's next words saved him from it: 

"Has your moat not returned? Are your dreams still troubled?" 

"No. Yes." 

"I see. We have the same sort of problem with death squads up here that we had in Sanctuary. 
Is that going to bother you?" 

"Undeads? Love 'em. Got a few of my own who claim to be taking special care of me. If that's 
all?" He backed toward the door. 

"Stepson you don't have to accept this I can send you elsewhere, put you in here. If you're 
not able, say the word." 

"I'm fine, Commander. Life to you." He loosened the latch's leather strap and pulled open the 
door, not waiting to hear Tempus respond in kind, not looking back to see his commander salute 
him as an equal. The loss of the Trs horses was a terrible one; from his commander's condition, 
enemies here were as formidable as he remembered. 

And Tempus was sending him, alone, across the Nisibisi border. 

He wished, securing the door and leaning against it, eyes closing of their own accord as he 
rested for a moment before going to seek out Grille, that he'd been able to refuse. 

But there was nothing else for him to do. Tempus knew it. He couldn't strut around inside these 
barracks walls and play politics with status-conscious sellswords. He shouldn't resent his 
commander making best use of him. And yet something inside him wanted to stay with the Riddler. 

He pushed off and headed for the door where he'd last seen Grillo. His own thoughts made no 
sense to him. He'd always maintained that a man's primary obligation was to think clearly; ever since 
his encounter with the witch, he'd been second-guessing himself. 

There was nothing else for him. He was a fighter; it was what he did and what he knew, what 
had kept him alive all these years. In the Sacred Band, code of honor was the only reality Niko 
understoodharsh, but life was harsh. Here in Tyse, where he had been enslaved, where he'd 
promised himself that freedom, should he ever regain it, was something he'd never lose again, he 
had a chance to avenge not only Janni, and the treatment he'd suffered at the witch's hands, but all 


the hell his childhood had been. He didn't understand why he wasn't eager to begin it, unless his fear 
of the mages had eaten through and hollowed out his heart. 

the hell his childhood had been. He didn't understand why he wasn't eager to begin it, unless his fear 
of the mages had eaten through and hollowed out his heart. 

The mercenaries' hostel sat upon Tyse's southeast boundary, its front door in Tysian jurisdiction, 
its sleeping quarters, rear exits, postern gates and stables beyond Tyse's city limits and thus free 
from curfew or any other law the local police or Elite Guard might wish to enforce. 

The hamlet in whose jurisdiction the balance of the hostel sat was called Peace Falls; there 
Peace River cascaded down three hundred feet of cliffs and wound about the farms like a lady's 
holiday girdle. On the river, Roxane had long maintained a home. 

But tonight she was at the back door of the hostel, on a Peace Falls street dotted with other 
ladies whose skirts were shorter and faces painted brighter as they loitered, snaring mercenaries to 
take inside the red-lit houses of ill repute which intermingled with custom weaponers and taverns 
and gaming houses there to serve the mercenaries. The street was called Commerce Avenue and it 
was wide and busy day and night. Nowhere in Tyse were caravaners so free with contraband. Drug 
dens specializing in krrf or opiates advertised their wares along with others offering more arcane 
substances to flood the mind with psychedelic dreams and give more personal glimpses of the future 
than abutting psychics' shops or card-readers could offer. On Commerce you could have your 
fortune told by presenting head or hand or foot or more private parts, or choosing a painted turtle 
or a cup of teaas long as copper coins accompanied your choice. 

The fortune Roxane meant to tell was Niko's. She'd made a fine disguise he'd never penetrate, 
as he had almost done when she'd served him rehabilitating stew at the Shepherd's Crook, where 
she'd merely cohabited with a barmaid in a shabby body. This time she'd made a whole persona, 
that of a young and comely virgin girl of the sort that Niko liked. 

She waited till she sensed him on the street and cued the snakes, disguised as drugged 
south-siders of the well-heeled sort that played at debauch here and paid for pleasures they'd never 
dare demand from their wives or indulge in at their homes. The snakes accosted her loudly, looking 
like Tysian popinjays, merchants' sons or politicians' spawn of the ilk that buy freedom from 
conscription by sending serfs to war in their stead. 

Like a well-bred and frightened girl, as she heard Niko's horses, she tried to fend off the snakes. 
And like the fool he was, he vaulted down from his bay to intervene. 

The snakes ran as they'd been told to; she swooned and Niko had to catch her. She'd been 
angry when he hadn't stayed with the Riddler, but Tempus was simply a more crafty quarry than 
others Roxane had sought. She'd lost two more minions fielding Adrastus' "son," Shamshi. She and 
Datan had already lost two warlocks to the Riddler in fair battle, and a hapless demon besides. 
Nisibis had not counted casualties of that magnitude in a century. These mortals would have much 
to answer for, by and by. 

In Niko's arms she played the girl, calling herself "Cybele" and hesitating when he offered to buy 
her drink and dinner, as would any runaway from good family origins who was out of money but yet 
had pride. 

Thus she lured him into an establishment known as Brother Bomba's, which served first-class 
food in front and offered anything a man might name behind a back door. 

"Now tell me what you're doing on a street like this, Cybele," Niko prodded, drinking tea 
because she'd refused even watered wine as they broke bread together. 

Her hair was fair, and her eyes were green, and her clothes were once noble, but layered with 
dust. She could see in his eyes that he was taken; she could feel in his mind his concern; Niko, 


whose youth had been a horror, would always save a young one what he could. She said, "It 
shames me, my lord. I cannot." She covered her eyes with her hands. 

whose youth had been a horror, would always save a young one what he could. She said, "It 
shames me, my lord. I cannot." She covered her eyes with her hands. 

Still hiding her face behind her hands, she shook her head, using the time to put the suggestion in 
his mind that he give her money to find an apartment, that he shelter her and succor her, and 
perhaps 

He began to broach the subject, explaining carefully that his intentions were honorable, offering 
to use his guild connections to contact her relatives, if she had any. 

Then she put down her hands and took one of his in both of hers, and kissed its rough, scarred 
back. By tomorrow she'd have him where she wanted himat her river house; she'd be his 
confidant, perhaps his lover. 

Datan faced his son, Shamshi, whose shoulders were squared and eyes shining brighter than the 
candelabras in the archmage's inner sanctum. 

"She sleeps," said the boy, bursting with pride at a job well done. 

Datan, too, was proud. A son such as this one could not be supplicated from the masters of the 
four elements or even the underword. Luck had played a part. "Well done," he replied, and hugged 
the boy to him. It was the first time they had ever embraced. Once he'd realized that the boy had 
been with Roxane, lain in carnal embrace and ritual copulation with Wizard-wall's finest witch, 
everything began to change between them: there was no need for further subterfuge. 

Now he regretted the years his child had struggled to hide his light among Mygdonians. It must 
have been like living in with wolves, being educated by chimpanzees or fraternizing with pigs. 
"Come and tell me all about ityour sojourn in the free zone, your trip here." 

He tousled the boy's pale hair and led him to a table in which a map of the known world was 
incised. A snap of fingers sufficed to bring food and drink from the kitchens: pheasant stuffed with 
almonds and grapes, watered wine, pastries he'd had prepared specially to please a child. He didn't 
need to hear Shamshi's account of his venture into Tyse; he'd overseen it personally, changing shape 
as circumstance required, always ready to intervene. Once waked by Roxane's premature caresses, 
the mageblood in this child could not be put back to sleep. He must be taught, he must be trained. 

Listening, Datan nodded in the appropriate places; when the boy would falter, he asked the right 
questions. He'd not chastised Shamshi for lying with Roxane, as he'd made little of it with the witch. 
Enchantresses of such power often dreamed of dominance, and Roxane's nature was vengeful and 
mean. It was best to turn her devisive efforts to his benefitfor what benefited Datan benefited 
Wizardwall. So he'd sent her out to tend to Nikodemos and the Riddler in person, away from more 
disastrous pursuits. 

When the boy hesitated, then trebled that his story was done, Datan broached a difficult and 
painful subject: his son must continue what he'd started, keep Jihan intrigued, even ride with her up 
into Mygdoniaif the Froth Daughter could be persuaded. Jihan had sworn to return Shamshi to 
his parents and safety; the blindstruck mother was in her husband's keeping, halfway to Mygdon by 
now. 

The boy blinked hard, hiding tears his upbringing as a prince had made him too proud to shed. 
Before Shamshi could frame the words to ask how he'd failed, that Datan would so punish him 
when all he wanted was to stay here with his sire and learn to be as he, the Osprey explained as 
much as he daredenough to soothe, not enough to be injurious should inexperience or Tempus 
pry the truth from that young, tender mouth. 

Then, when the child's appetite assured Datan that the boy was content with the offered 


explanation, he went to greet his guest. 

explanation, he went to greet his guest. 

Nothing he'd seen in Roxane's errors or intentional misinterpretation of his orders troubled him 
as much as the Storm-bringer's blood red orbs appearing on the field of battle over Tempus as 
Datan and the Riddler stood face to face. 

And yet, he was sure the Froth Daughter's father would not interpose Himself directly so long as 
the daughter was not threatened physically. No father's meddling is welcome when a child tries its 
independence. 

He knocked upon her door and as he did so snapped the slumber spell, and she came to greet 
him, her scale armor corselet glimmering in the soft hall light, her magnificent figure limned enticingly 
in the open door. 

"I trust you slept well, my lady Jihan," he said smoothly, not a hint of the impact her human 
form's animal magnetism had on him sounding in his words. A vision is one thing, a mental 
impression another, but a meeting in the flesh with Jihan made Datan almost forget whose daughter 
she was and whose lover she'd become. "I'm Shamshi's" 

"Father. He told me. I'll keep your secret, Osprey." Jihan stepped forward, out of the shadowed 
doorway. Datan spread his arms to embrace her in thanks as was Nisibisi custom. She caught his 
right hand as it swept by and shook it so firmly he thought he heard his bones complain. 

"'Protector," I like to call myself. His mother would be executed, his father-of-record shamed 
unnecessarily, if his lineage were known." As she loosed her grip, he turned her hand in his and led 
her down the corridor. 

"Not to mention the boys' inheritance the power, the position these too, I wager, would be 
lost to himand you." 

"Ah, I hear in your tone that you've accepted all the evil things said of me with not even the 
tiniest doubt. All men hate their enemies, and anyone the slightest bit smarter or more able. Surely 
you've seen this for yourself, even in so short a time among" 

"So you know my provenance?" 

Datan couldn't stop looking at her; every inch of him longed to press against her; he headed 
them toward his seraglio, a plan forming in his mind. "It makes us even. And it should ease your 
mind: your father is respected here, as everywhere He is known. As long as you wish it, you are my 
honored guest. And I hope it will be long enough to let me plead my case, mayhap to change your 
opinion of me. Though you walk among men you needn't share their prejudicesyour intelligence 
offers you so much more in insight" 

"I promised the boy to accompany him to safetyhome to his mother. She's not here, your staff 
says. She had some sort of accident?" 

"Yes, unfortunately. She went north with her husband. What you and Shamshi have agreed is 
between you two, but I swear he's safe here and you may leave him" Pausing, he pushed open 
the door at the hall's end and he heard Jihan's breath catch in her throat at the splendor of illusory 
vistas upon the walls and hanging silks and forgotten works of art from age-old cultures. The last of 
the seraglio's women, alerted by his unspoken signal, hurried out by the chamber's back door. 
"Leave him with me," he continued, leading her to the right where a room those women seldom 
entered could be foundif one could dematerialize a section of travertine wall. 


The wall dissolved; Datan bowed low: "After you, Jihan." 

The wall dissolved; Datan bowed low: "After you, Jihan." 

"He'll need a few days' rest." 

"More? We've been here" 

"He's just a boy, my lady. And one who's had adventures arduous for a child his age." 

"My friends will be worried. I must send a message, then." 

"Your friends? Or is it one in particular, who pretends to friendship, but in reality is an enemy of 
mine with thought for little else but bloodshed and..." 

"I'll hear no ill word spoken of him." Her eyes flashed red as she turned about in the ante room, 
staring at him, her muscular arms crossed. 

"Such loyalty. You've heard tomes of evil said of me, no doubt, without complaint. Let me make 
my case, dear lady. An intelligence such as yours should gather all the facts it can before choosing 
sides." 

A smile danced in the corners of her mouth; her arms unfolded. She was looking beyond him 
now, where the doorway he had made was once more a solid marble wall. "You'd woo me, O 
fearsome, vilified archmage?" 

"You loved an 'archmage' enough to take that form, or so my sources tell me. I wish only justice, 
a hearing, august Froth Daughter. And to prove it, I'll conjure the Riddler forth for you, and facilitate 
any message you choose to send him." 

"You can do this?" 

"Assuredly." He had her, then. He escorted her around the corner and into the vaulted chamber 
he used for summoning, and on a single daybed bade her sit. Then he went and spun the globe 
within its mosaic circle which stood in the very center of the room, starlight spewing on it from the 
roof's skylight. And as the gem-encrusted globe spun round, the light it caught flickered along the 
walls and streaked, and when he stopped it with an outstretched hand and then stepped back, the 
light coalesced, and where the globe had been a man took form, lying on his back with a woman 
riding high atop him. His eyes were closed, and one hand on her buttocks, and as these two began 
to thicken into flesh Datan heard Jihan's harsh indrawn breath and stayed the process: "Yes, my 
lady? It seems we've chosen an inopportune time to interrupt him." 

"That's right," she snapped. "And I've changed my mind about the message: I'll let him worry." 

And so Datan let the lifelike image of Tempus, his arm in a sling and his needs being tended by 
the widow Maldives, fade away. 

Luck, this night, was doubly on Datan's side. 

Book Four : 
PEACE FALLS 



Niko hadn't liked what he'd seen in the free zone. The specials he'd fallen in withAri and his 
left-side leader, Haramcalled the refugees "Maggots" and couldn't tell a civilian from a Successor. 
To deem the situation in Tyse "explosive" was an understatement: among the half-dozen citizen 
militias and as many private armies, Elite Guards and Rankan garrisons and mercenary hordes who 
fought among themselves, casualties were a daily occurrence. 

Niko hadn't liked what he'd seen in the free zone. The specials he'd fallen in withAri and his 
left-side leader, Haramcalled the refugees "Maggots" and couldn't tell a civilian from a Successor. 
To deem the situation in Tyse "explosive" was an understatement: among the half-dozen citizen 
militias and as many private armies, Elite Guards and Rankan garrisons and mercenary hordes who 
fought among themselves, casualties were a daily occurrence. 

The wisest thing to do in such environs was to harden one's heart to the pathos, close one's ears 
to the fanatics of the factions, forget words like justice and mercy, and do one's job. 

To that end, he'd come up here, northeast of town, to seek out Bashir in Free Nisibis. He'd tried 
convincing the Successors in the free zone to have Bashir come down to meet him, but his armband 
and pale skin spoke against him. He couldn't blame them: Tyse was little more than a baited trap or 
an open grave for a man who let his caution slip. And he couldn't send a message which might be 
intercepted, couldn't divulge what it was he wanted. Tempus had straightforwardly asked Bashir for 
a meeting and been ignored. 

He let Janni's bay pick its way through the new moon night. 

It was raining, and he'd been waiting for a night like this for nearly a week now. No scent or 
track would be left behind him; the sound of the rain would mask his movement. He'd be able to 
rate Bashir's security when he saw him. Over his shoulders he pulled the oilcloth mantle he'd been 
issued when he was inducted into Grille's special forces. The sight of its yellow lining was enough to 
send honest men running for cover and criminals fumbling for bribe or weapon. The repute of his 
profession had fallen, in these lands where he'd been born, to an all-time low. But the lining kept the 
rain off, and the color kept the curious away, and Niko, who couldn't trust himself, bereft of moat 
and partner, to steer a middle course or negotiate a fair solution as once he'd done, valued it for 
these reasons. 

In the hostel, where he was billeted, he didn't rest easy. In Cybele's rented house down by 
Peace River he'd found a refuge which he guarded jealously, kept secret from the specials who 
thought themselves his friends here. He'd given up making friends. The pretense of it he kept up 
under orders: Tempus wanted these fighters' measure taken. Niko, to do that, was keeping 
company with men whose natures and entertainments (save for Ari, who simply mimicked his 
left-side leader) were reprehensible to him. If the elite among the mercenaries had been skimmed off 
to form the Stepsons, then its opposite was stationed here in Tyse, like the sediment at the bottom 
of a cheap wine jug. 

Some might have said that what Niko was doing was less than honorable, but none of that sort 
resided here at the foot of Wizardwall. 

Crossing the Nisibisi border he could feel the difference, as if the wards still lingering here from 
former times were cobwebs jeweled with rain which wrapped themselves about his limbs. He 
wasn't worried; the wards were ancient wraiths of lost power: this was Successor country, and 
Wizardwall little more than an evil shadow on the horizon. Enlil's priesthood ruled here, 
warrior-priests who fought in the lines like Abarsis and blessed swords to cut through charms and 
eyes to pierce illusion. 

After his release from servitude on Wizardwall, he'd spent a pleasant year hereor memory 
had made it seem better than it was. 


He reined his horse to the right at a fork and soon saw haloed lights of a farm or tiny village up 
the road. He thought of stopping to secure a mealguesting was taken seriously here where 
everyone had the sorcerous enemy in common and was about to head his horse across a field 
when he heard a scuttling in the tall corn planted by the roadside. 

He reined his horse to the right at a fork and soon saw haloed lights of a farm or tiny village up 
the road. He thought of stopping to secure a mealguesting was taken seriously here where 
everyone had the sorcerous enemy in common and was about to head his horse across a field 
when he heard a scuttling in the tall corn planted by the roadside. 

Between the rows of saddle-high corn over squishing, muddy ground his horse cantered slowly, 
ears pricked forward, nostrils widethen leaped ahead suddenly and veered sharply left, and ran 
the skulker down, trampling its vestments, heavy with mud, so that as the figure fell it sobbed a bit, 
too winded to scream. 

He knew it was a woman as he backed the horse and slid down into ankle-high mud; he didn't 
realize it was a pregnant girl until he tried to turn the curled-up form and was bitten on the wrist and 
clawed. He couldn't risk a torch; he couldn't wrest any answer from the pale, thin face smeared with 
mud or make the frightened eyes meet his own. But the child was near her term and hardly older 
than he had been when he came out of Bandara. He'd hurt her, too. Cursing his horse and his luck 
he hoisted her up on his saddle and led the bay through the field until, one hand holding the girl in 
place and the other on his reins, he came up to the farmhouse's back door. 

But the people who wouldn't open it swore they didn't know her; they refused to guest a 
"Rankan barbarian and your filthy slut." 

Back on the road, he swung up behind her, wondering if it was blood or rain that ran down her 
legs, and whether she spoke any language at all. She responded to none of his six. 

A few miles farther on he saw a jut of table rock he remembered. There was a cave there. He'd 
leave her with a blanket, his full wineskin, and make her a fire; she wasn't his problem; she wouldn't 
talk to him or acknowledge him though her buttocks were pressed against him as they rode 
double she might, he thought, be feeble-minded. 

He kept hearing a wolf howl, plaintive whines and occasional sneezes off in the pines that grew 
thickly on either side. It could be a pack. If the girl was bleeding, not just wet, the smell would have 
drawn them. When he urged the horse off the road and up an incline to where the cave he recalled 
still gaped, he could hear wet pine needles rustling and water cascading down from low branches. 

He pulled her off the horse and carried her into the cave and put her down. The whole time she 
said nothing, didn't even stiffen, just endured him. 

He ducked back out to get a blanket and his flint and an oil-soaked torch to light inside while he 
looked for dry dung or branches to make the fire. His horse, drop-tied, was snorting and rolling its 
eyes, dancing in place: the wolves. He calmed it and got what he wanted from its saddlebags, 
slipping off its headstall so that if it had to fight, it would be at no disadvantage. He was just turning 
to go back inside when once more he heard a sneeze, followed by a whine. And there above the 
cave, upon the rock, its eyes luminous, was a timber wolf, sparse moonlight glinting off its wet fur. 

It sprang down to the flat ground before the cave and Niko stepped back reflexively, drawing 
the sword Akelon had given him, its hilt warm in his hand. Magic was aboutthe wolf, perhaps. 

"Come on then, wolf. Come try your luck." Before the cave's mouth, the beast bristled, its ruff 
thickening. It whined. It sneezed. It shook itself all over. It sat on its haunches and rubbed its nose 
and then its eyes with one paw. 

And as he watched, it began to change, to shimmer and to grow until, as he circled to get a 
better look and his hackles rose and his mouth dried and he blinked to try to pierce illusion, a naked 
mana youth, nearly hairlesscrouched there. 


It sneezed again, then grabbed up a leaf and blew its nose and waved its hand before it where a 
pile of clothes and an oil lamp came to be. 

It sneezed again, then grabbed up a leaf and blew its nose and waved its hand before it where a 
pile of clothes and an oil lamp came to be. 

Sniffling loudly, the apparition raised its head and said thickly, as if it couldn't breathe through its 
nose: "Stealth, called Nikodemos? Let's not curse in any Names here." Its n's sounded like d's and 
its h's were silent. 

Niko lowered his sword and crouched down to indicate a truce. 

The manform was struggling into its clothes now. In the light of the oil lamp at its feet, dressed 
and sopping, red-nosed and teary of eye, it looked like a badly-set table in its Rankan mageguild 
formal wear: the girdle, lacy and embroidered with the devices of its rank, proclaimed it a 
Hazard-class magician, junior grade. 

It said: "I'm Randal. Of the Tysian branch of the Rankan mage" 

"guild, I see. What do you want of me, Hazard?" 

An explosive sneeze wracked it: "Begging your pardon, Stealth. I'm allergic to animals, fur most 
of all. Every time I have to do this," he bent down, fumbled in the diminished pile before him, came 
up with an embroidered handkerchief and blew his nose, "it brings on an attack. I hate animal forms. 
That's why I'm still a junior Drink?" 

The Hazard waved a hand and a canopy materialized above them, a great metal bathtub on 
silver bulls' backs in the midst of it, a fire beneath to keep the water hot. Beside this was a table set 
with victuals fit for a mageguild fte. "Don't look at me like that, fighter. It's not catching. It's just the 
hair it gets in my nose." 

Niko's horse had scrambled back a hundred yards when the striped pavilion had appeared from 
nowhere. He said: "I've got to see to my horse," and backed out of the light. 

As Niko watched from what he hoped was a safe distance, the mage hiked up his robes, tucked 
them in his girdle, poured himself a goblet of wine mulling so that its spices, wafting on the dank and 
drizzly wind, reminded Niko how cold and tired he was, then climbed up to seat himself on the 
bathtub's curving rim, his feet in the steaming water up to his knees. "That's more like it. By the 
Writ, I hate these field excursions. Aaah" 

Niko, at his horse's head, spoke soothing words and filled the bay's feedbag. To do so, he had 
to sheath the sword. Then he had no more excuses (except the girl in the cave beyond) not to deal 
with this enchanter, who had gone to so much trouble to seem benign. But they never were. 
Promising himself not to eat or drink or believe anything offered him by the shape-changer, he 
approached and stood just beyond the canopy's shelter. 

"Come join me?" There was a whiney tone to the Hazard's voice. Niko remembered the 
wolf-sounds which had accompanied him for the last few miles. 

"You've been following me. What do you want?" "Randal. My name is Randal." The mage 
snuffled as he reminded Niko of this. And: "Would you hand me that other handkerchief there? 
Steam's best for this. But then my nose runs worse" 

Trying not to chuckle, Niko brought it over. The warmth of the water was no illusion. The steam 
and the heat were enticing. He said: "Were you following me, Randal? If so why?" 

"Why? Because you haven't had the grace to check in with the mageguild. Don't you people 
ever collect your messages?" "Messages? I have no friends who'd" "Everyone who's anyone 
sends messages north and south through the mageguild network." 


"Fine. What's the word you've brought? And from whom?" The mage had prodigious ears and a 
long, swanlike neck. It was hard to fear him, but Hazard-class status was not easily reached. Even a 
junior had power. 

"Fine. What's the word you've brought? And from whom?" The mage had prodigious ears and a 
long, swanlike neck. It was hard to fear him, but Hazard-class status was not easily reached. Even a 
junior had power. 

"I'm letting you. The dream lordAkeloncame to me in my sleep, and that's why I'm here. 
I wasn't going to do this. I refused. Very brave of me after all, he's not our archmage. But then 
I changed my mind." 

"There's a pregnant girl in that cave who's injured. Can you do anything for her?" 

"Aren't you going to rape her and kill her? I don't want to interfere. I'll just give you your 
message and depart..." 

"If you can do all this, you can take her with you. I'll pick her up when I get back to Tyse." 

"If you do. We'll strike a bargain, then" "I don't bargain with warlocks." 

"Then she'll die, with or without rape and torture. Your message from the dream lord is as 
follows: you're supposed to tell Tempus that he must call on Akelon and ah, some woman or 
other (I've left my notes behind) if he wants their assistance. And on a personal notethis I can 
quote: 'Be strong. Control your mind. Heed your dreams. Guard your soul." That ring any bells?" 

Niko shook his head mutely. 

Randal looked at him askance. "Well, it's something you forgot, it seemssomething the 
entelechy was quite anxious that you remember." The mage's watery eyes were narrowed on him 
now. "Doesn't sound quite like you'll be riding back to Tyse this evening, does it?" 

Niko's sword rasped out. When its point touched the young mage's Adam's apple, its hilt, 
always warm, heated perceptibly in his grasp as it had when he fought sorcery in Vashanka's 
temple. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. Now here's the 'bargain': take the girl and disappear, or 
I'll send your soul with hers to buy her a better death than the life she's had." 

The sword, touching the mage's flesh,.would anchor him as long as contact was maintained. 

Snapping his fingers to no avail, the Hazard found this out. Then he said, "Agreed," Niko 
lowered his weapon, and mage and pavilion and bathtub and lamp-and girl, he found when he 
went to checkwere gone. All that was left was the wine, mulling in its bowl, to prove he hadn't 
dreamed itand the message, which sounded so familiar. 

* * * 

Grille had suggested to Tempus that he look in on one of Niko's "skirts," a girl-child named 
Cybele who lived down by Peace River in higher style than most refugees could afford. The Rankan 
officer hadn't made a point of it, but mentioned it offhandedlythat was Grille's way. What 
prompted the suggestion, Tempus still wasn't sure as he backed a big roan war-horse of no 
particular breeding out of its stall to curry and saddle it. He'd chosen the gelding from Grillo's string, 
as he'd chosen the squadron billeted at Outbridge from Grillo's pool of specials, based on Niko's 
recommendations and Grillo's advice. Like the horse, the men would do for the nonce. 

Across the barn, Niko's pregnant mare stuck her blazed head over her stall's door and 
whickered at him. He left the roan cross-tied and went to stroke her. She missed Niko, but the foal 
she carried was nearly priceless now, with both the Trs stallions gone. He felt the loss of his Trs 
horses more sharply than that of Jinan: she might have deserted him of her own accord, and Datan's 
taunt might be no more than opportunistic lies on the archmage's part, but the horses would never 
have left him willingly. He wanted them back. 


The manifestations of Stormbringer during the Outbridge sack lent credibility to the claims of 
Wizardwall's warlock, though. One way or the other, he'd soon find out the truth of it. Rear echelon 
checkpoints had sent word that the first of the Stepsons' units was within a day or two of Tyse. An 
advance pair of Sacred Banders had come in shortly after Niko had gone north to arrange the 
meeting with Bashir. Everything was proceeding apace, despite Bashir's recalcitrance and Grille's 
reluctance to share information. 

The manifestations of Stormbringer during the Outbridge sack lent credibility to the claims of 
Wizardwall's warlock, though. One way or the other, he'd soon find out the truth of it. Rear echelon 
checkpoints had sent word that the first of the Stepsons' units was within a day or two of Tyse. An 
advance pair of Sacred Banders had come in shortly after Niko had gone north to arrange the 
meeting with Bashir. Everything was proceeding apace, despite Bashir's recalcitrance and Grille's 
reluctance to share information. 

When the entire cadre was in Outbridge, all his personnel problems would shake out without 
him having to exacerbate rivalries by giving disciplinary orders or seeming to favor one unit over 
another: Critias wouldn't tolerate the sort of laxity that Haram, Grillo's ranking task force leader, 
permitted. 

He led the saddled roan out into the cloudy night. The rain had abated, though thunderheads still 
masked the sky to the north. The moon was setting. Riding through the double gates with a wave to 
the sentries, he considered what he'd learned. There was some truth behind the Sacred Band pair's 
worries. Niko should have mentioned the return of the cuirass; though the young mercenary was 
retiring by nature, he wasn't secretive. And yet, thinking back to their reunion in Tempus' quarters, it 
was clear to him that the youth had been wearing the very panoply in question. Niko had been 
exhausted, and Tempus consumed with the feat of healingit could have been just an oversight, 
after all. Possession was a serious accusation, nothing to be taken lightly. Often, one so afflicted 
could be cured only by death. He hoped that this would not be so in Niko's case. 

It was late to be abroad in Tyse; he met only garrison soldiers, a team of Grilles' covert actors, 
and two of his own three-man patrols on his way to Peace Falls. 

Commerce Avenue, when he crossed the border and turned onto it, was thronged even this late. 

On a whim he stopped to buy some krrf at Brother Bomba's, a full-service establishment of the 
sort for which Commerce Avenue was famous, and spent a pleasant interval trading rumor and 
innuendo with Bomba's statuesque wife, a canny woman who had been a camp follower and then a 
mercenary barber-surgeon in her younger days, and thus had guild standing and a second income as 
an information monger of unparalleled expertise. Too, because of her unusual history and the 
breadth of her travels and experience, her black-market connections were as singular as her 
informants, and she pressed on him a little satin pouch of pulcis, with a twinkling eye, saying it had 
come straight from hell via a famous krrf dealer in Caronne whom she named. And: "You know, 
don't you, sleepless one, that the man's the uncle of one of your sellswords? Stealth, his war name 
is. Get the boy to send his uncle a note and we'll be up to our buttocks in pulcis, and share the 
profits." Madame Bomba's drug-reddened eyes glittered in a weathered face which had once been 
beautiful. Pulcis, which took the mind on out-of-body excursions and was as thoroughly 


habit-forming as indescribable ecstasy tended to be, incapacitated its users only evanescently, 
leaving a residue which made of men supermen and of women seeresses and sexual athletes for up 
to a week following a single dose. But it was rare and costly. 

habit-forming as indescribable ecstasy tended to be, incapacitated its users only evanescently, 
leaving a residue which made of men supermen and of women seeresses and sexual athletes for up 
to a week following a single dose. But it was rare and costly. 

She sighed at his touch, then cowered in mocking, girlish fear. They played this game at every 
meeting. She was a woman he respected, and that respect had been earned over years of service to 
the armies. Not for her the cosmetic spell or cheap jewels of the aging wench. She traded on her 
acumen and was delectable for her wisdom. They'd often joked of murdering Bomba and running 
Peace Falls in tandem. 

But now she took a lock of hip-length, gray-streaked hair and twirled it round her long fingers, 
whose skin was crinkling but whose bones still bespoke fine breeding, strength and skill. She was a 
fraction of his age, yet looked a decade older. "My guest, dear friend, tales are told many of 
them unwelcome. You love your Stepsons. Will you hear a bad word of one?" "I'll hear you." 

"Stealth brought a girl in here we don't think suits a son of the armies." 

"Niko keeps strings of girls like other men keep horses. But they are children, mere fuzz 
What's he done, deflowered one of yours?" 

She chuckled heartily, stabbed over her shoulder toward a curtained door behind which boys 
and girls took lovers for the enrichment of the house. "Mine? I've none intact right now, and that's 
how he likes 'em. But I've a barmaid who swells up all over with hives when she's close to a Nisibisi 
witch or warlockbought the charm from one of the mageguild Hazards and had it put on her 
myself." "So?" 

"So, when she was serving them, she began to itch. She must be new hereaboutsthe one he 
escorted in, that isno one knows her. But talk to Randal at the mageguild local, if you don't 
believe the spell's well cast. It's never yet been in error." As she spoke, she apportioned krrf for 
them, and they both partook while Tempus thought that over. 

"You haven't told this tale about? To Grille, perhaps?" 

She feigned insult. "You are turning into a filthy Rankan barbarian, friend, to think such a thing of 
me. Is he Grille's, then? Or still yours?" 

"Some think he's one of Grille's specials..." 

"I'm not one who believes that lions follow jackals' orders, Riddler. I'm not like the widow 
Maldives, who runs to Grille with every morsel of intimacy you slip her" Fist to her nose, she 
snorted loudly, smacked her lips as she swallowed the krrf that ran down the back of her throat. 
"Do take care, love. We value thee, thy custom and thy trade." 

He nodded, paid his bill, and took his leave of her, nothing learned there he hadn't suspected. 

On the avenue, where the roan was tethered, an unfamiliar voice hailed him. He turned around 
and there in Brother Bomba's shadowed doorway spied its source as he mounted up. 

He'd had enough conversation; he backed his horse into the street, not acknowledging the other, 
but the man left the porch and came after him, so he stayed the roan to let the stranger have his say: 
"What is it, man? I'm late for an appointment." 

"My name is Randal," said the short-haired, large-eared stranger, whose neck was long and 
clothes wet and streaked with mud. "I believe my name was taken in vain in there" The slight man 
in mageguild robes stepped closer. Tempus's knees counseled his mount to back a pace. The mage 


kept up, saying: "I know how you feel, but please don't make me shout." 

kept up, saying: "I know how you feel, but please don't make me shout." 

The junior Hazard stiffened perceptibly, his flush evident even in the street's torchlight. "I've been 
on an errand for powers concerned with you. Don't ask me who. And I've come back bearing a 
burden your Nikodemos pressed on mea pregnant child who'll give birth before dawn: her 
water's broken. Now, do you want him to collect it at the mageguild, or shall I deposit it at the 
Outbridge station?" 

"I don't like my men involved with mage" 

"Not his fault or mine. I'm stretching matters, coming here. The least you can do" the mage 
sneezed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, backed a half-step, cursing Tempus's horse under his breath 
but without invoking any names "is listen. Will you?" 

"Best hurry, boy," Tempus suggested. "My patience with your kind's worn thin through the 
ages." 

"When Niko returns, be sure he remembers to tell you what I had to remind him he forgot." The 
mage stepped back then, quickly. 

"That's it? The whole reason for this interview?" 

"The pregnant girl," the mage called back. "Remember? Your place or mine? It matters not to 
me." Randall was plainly exasperated. 

"Keep it. If he wants it, he'll collect it." Pregnant girl? 

He wheeled his horse and rode away, wondering if he had patience enough left in him for baby 
Hazards and mistakes such as Niko seemed continually to be making lately. 

* * * 

Roxane, a/k/a Cybele, cursed so that the snakes, once again in her service, rushed for cover as 
soon as they'd slithered into her study to announce that Tempus was at the front door. 

She wasn't prepared for him; she wasn't about to try him in battle, her magic against his deific 
mandate. All the tests she and Datan had undertaken suggested that the Storm Gods still favored 
him. 

And anyway, she meant to use him to destroy Datan, not let Datan use him to destroy her. 
Having to apologize for what she'd done with Shamshi, and to stand by while Datan had taken the 
boy out of her hands in mid-adventure, had only hardened her resolve. And she knew Datan was 
watching her closely; he'd bade her come down here and work openly, doubtless expecting her to 
come up short against this dangerous "mortal" called Tempus. She didn't intend to let that happen. 

She'd been busy, this evening, collecting souls and farming out murder to the death squads. The 
warlock who'd burned to death in the root cellar during Tempus's sack of the Outbridge 
headquarters was a restless, tortured spirit stillDatan hadn't lifted a wand to help him. 

Roxane, long established in Tyse in the guise of a human revolutionary, knew all the death squad 
leaders of the insurgency, and fielded dead squads besides. This evening, the undeads had brought 
her three fat and dissipated souls stained with sin: she'd just been consigning them to a demon who 
would send them in coffle down to weigh against the slain warlock's soul. She'd wanted to wait and 
watch to make sure the scales balanced. The dead adept was a friend and confidant; he'd be right 
to expect her help. 

Now she had to put her scrying bowl aside. A little water slopped out as she did so. She ran a 
finger through it and used its charm to hasten and strengthen her change into the "Cybele" persona, a 


body devoid of sorcerous indicators, unsullied and virginal so that even Niko's enchanted panoply 
didn't react to it. This and her presence in Stealth's confused mind were her most potent weapons at 
the moment. 

body devoid of sorcerous indicators, unsullied and virginal so that even Niko's enchanted panoply 
didn't react to it. This and her presence in Stealth's confused mind were her most potent weapons at 
the moment. 

Nervous as the girl she seemed, she lifted the latch and loosened the thong and pulled the door 
back just a crack. "Yes?" she quavered, smoothing down a wrinkled, high-necked robe she'd 
conjured. It was ecru and modest and spotlessly clean, threadbare at one elbow, but just the sort of 
bedclothes a noble child, chased homeless down from Vandor or Machad, might wear. 

As a final precaution, she sent the snakes a wordless command which propelled them tumbling 
out the back door into the night. They were Datan's spies as well as useful thralls: she couldn't quite 
forgive them for the pain they'd caused her when the Osprey called them from her belly. Stupid 
snakes might misinterpret what she said or what she did 

"I'm looking for a maid called Cybele," came Tempus's hoarse and raspy voice. Through the 
crack she could see him, towering, helmet under arm; his face, lit by the oil lamp on the doorpost, 
arrangednonthreatening, noncommittal. "I'm a friend of Niko's," he added when she did not 
respond or open up the door, as if that explained it all. 

She thought quickly, then exclaimed: "Niko? He's not hurl? You're of the army? Please!" She 
jerked back the heavy door with an artful, flustered stumbled. "Tell me he's not slain! Oh In, 
come in, kind sir. Tell me it's not bad news you bring!" He stepped within, shoulders blocking the 
hall, leather and armor creaking, the smell of horse and whetstone and man and rain coming with 
him. She'd never thought to be this close. She backed away with mincing steps, a girl whose fingers 
shook as they covered her lips, who had obviously had experiences with soldiers come bearing 
tidings of loss and mourning, but who stood up straight and gave back glance for glance through 
wide and gentle eyes. 

And he surmised what she'd hoped he would, assuring her that Niko was "on a mission for 
me. I just thought to stop by and let you know whom to call on should you need anything while he's 
away." 

She slumped at the "good news" and he reached out to catch her by the elbow. This was the 
test: she would see whether his flesh could contact hers without him sensing anything amiss that 
she was no more or less than what she seemed. She mumbled her relief and welcomed him: 
"There's not much here a bit of beer he's left, some young potato wine. He'd want you to have it, 
sir Are you Grillo, then? He's said that name to me" Making girlish guesses, prattling on, she 
led him into the front sitting room, more modest than it had been moments before, and fetched 
pottery cups and a wine jug from the sideboard, asking questions the Riddler wouldn't want to 
answerabout where Niko was and why and how long he'd be away. 

"We can't say, I'm sure he told you. Has he left you enough money? Don't hesitate to say if he 
has not." 

She tossed back tawny hair and demurred bravely that Niko had provided for her, then 
hesitated: "as best he could." And she let her face show caution, then, and a pretense of 
dissembling he'd see right through: "And I have my own means, my inheritance" Then, a trace of 
fear to spice it: "I shouldn't be talking with you this way. You haven't even said your name. How can 
I be sure you are a friend of his, and not an enemy? How can I know I'm not endangering him?" 
She rose."You'd better go!" She saw to it that he noticed how her hands, wringing one another, 


trembled. 

trembled. 

She thanked him and rushed toward him, grasping his hand and pressing it to her cheek. She 
hoped she hadn't overdone it. But her success had emboldened her, she'd try to enlarge upon this 
contact, see him again. "I've been so worried, so lonely," she blurted out."I feel much better now 
you've come. I'm afraid to go out, and since the dog died I'm afraid in the night..." 

Until he'd crossed her threshold and donned his helmet and mounted, she stood watching. 
Except for his odd little smile and the alertness in his eyes, she'd have been sure mat she had fooled 
him. As it was, she'd gained the promise of a watchdog, courtesy of the armies, and even a way to 
insinuate herself into the Riddler's very company, should she dare or need to try. 

When he'd gone, she conjured guests for a celebration: three undeads, friends of Niko's, who 
might just be drafted into service before too long. 

It was time to pull tight Niko's string; pregnant girls and magelings bearing messages from the 
dream lord were no part of Roxane's plan. Niko mustn't get back with word to Tempus; or he must 
forget again. Or she must find some way to use the meddling of the entelechy of the seventh sphere 
to her advantage: if Tempus sought out Datan and made an end to him, not Roxane or any other 
witch or adept of Wizardwall would scour the hills for souls to buy him peace. He'd not lifted a 
finger for any of them. And each time she did what Datan should have done, for spirits languishing in 
immemorial recompense for the favors they'd enjoyed in life, she made sure that each shade in 
question knew that it was she, not he, who bought them out of purgatory. 

* * * 

Thunderbolts clashed in the sky over Tyse and along the Nisibisi border lightning furrowed the 
earth in rows as if the gods had turned to farming, though gods had no hand in calling the tempest 
raging overhead: the wizards of Nisibis were testing the Tysian mageguild's strength. 

Now and again a canny bolt came to ground in Tyse, un-parried. One had struck the old stones 
of the palace; whether any had survived within, none could say. One had struck the altar pits within 
the free zone, crawling blue and bright along the ground until every god's abode was singed and 
blackened. One had struck the northern garrison, lighting fires which touched off magazines of corn 
and wheat and naphtha: the entire north-em quadrant was ablaze. 

At midday, the black smoke from the north on the black wind from Nisibis under the black 
clouds above made the staunchest man doubt his senses: those without knotted ropes which burned 
away the hours soon lost all track of night and day. 

In Peace Falls, mercenaries stayed close by their horses; some slept with favorites in their stalls, 
in wetted straw with blindfolds near and wineskins filled with bubbling water mixed with soda to 
soak kerchiefs for their noses if they had to fight their way through noxious smoke; some gamed and 
argued in the tackrooms over whether the Tysian mageguild could hold its own; others simply 
waited for the change of ad hoc shifts: twenty men here had drawn straws for the early watch over 
more than sixty horses. No one groused or shirked this duty: without their mounts, any cavalry such 


as the newly-arrived Stepsons were next to useless. 

as the newly-arrived Stepsons were next to useless. 

Pulling out a slate, she pursed her lips, detaining them in the foyer so that Straton looked about 
for hidden traps or hostiles crowding in behind the six Stepsons in the narrow, darkened hall. 

Crit slapped the towel down into the woman's hand. "Critias, I'm called, if it's any of your 
concern. Either let us in or turn us out. We're eight and we're not in the mood" 

"There, there, Critias. Yes, I've your name right here. And these others?" to Crit's surprise, 
she named each of his men, nodding at the end: "That's it, then. The whole lot, present and 
accounted for. Come this way, gentlemen." 

And she led them in, around a blind corner to a smoke-filled, taper-lit dining room with linen on 
the tables and clean, well-dressed women at the bar. "The Riddler wants you all to make yourselves 
at home here," she confided, taking Critias by the arm, "where a man can do as he might please 
without being misunderstood. In there" she pointed to a curtained arch with filigree at its apex 
"you'll find an upstairs and a downstairs upstairs is for what upstairs is always forrest and 
mattress sports; downstairs we've smoking rooms and substances of many sorts." 

"Just food, a little wine. We were told we'd meet with our" 

"I know why you're here. We'll send word to the Riddler, as we've done with your mates. 
You've a full twenty-four hours entertainment here, by Tempus' decree and mine. So enjoy, 
gentlemen it's on the house." 

And she left Critias by a window table in the room's far corner, set for four, though only he and 
Strat sat there. The others, when he looked about, were scattered throughout the roomdeployed, 
he admitted, as well as he could have done it, so that every entrance was covered and yet no one 
sat aloneand he hadn't had to ask, as he usually did, in a place like this, to be seated against a 
wall. 

"What do you think?" Strat asked him. "Or have you fallen in love?" 

"Half," Crit smiled bleakly. And: "This is where we were told to report. If there's a trick to it, 
we'll deal with it when it comes." 

What came was a peaches-and-cream serving wench with a bosom modestly covered in lace to 
her throat, who gave a recitation of the menu and recommendations as to what was best, then 
lemon-chicken soup and crown of lamb in quick succession, with a light white wine to wash it down 
and asparagus and rice with onions on the side. 

"Am I dreaming?" Straton wondered, wiping his bearded lips. "This is hardly the 'three hots and 
a flop' I'm accustomed to." 

"The poison hasn't hit yet; dream on." Crit wasn't entirely joking. He'd let the girl choose their 
menu but waited until she'd seen Straton clear half his plate before partaking of what surely must be 
black-market delicacies. There was quite a bit wrong about this place, so calm and sedately 
mannered when magewar raged outside. Every now and then the floorboards shook, or a flare of 
lightning brightened convivial dimness, reminding him of where he was, and why. But Tempus's 
orders had been specific: they were to rendezvous here even before they talked to any officials at 
the hostel. And that hadn't been easy to do. 


When Tempus appeared in the curtained archway, Crit had just decided to find the Bomba 
woman again and have a heart-to-heart. 

When Tempus appeared in the curtained archway, Crit had just decided to find the Bomba 
woman again and have a heart-to-heart. 

"Well met, Critias. And just in time." Tempus sat, and the dogor wolf, for it was that big and 
strongcrawled under the table from where emanated a sneeze and a growl which made Straton 
tilt his chair back, one foot up on its rung. "Straton, life to you." 

Straton saluted Tempus, eyes on the tablecloth's hem. 

"It is with great relief and pleasure that I return your band to you," Crit said, only a sidelong 
glance at Straton revealing his wish to make his report privately. 

But Strat knew him; the fighter was already getting up. "I'm ready to see what lies beyond those 
curtains. If you won't be needing me, commander?" He grinned mischievously. 

"In an hour, come back down." Tempus smiled a tiny smile all Stepsons knew well: some action 
or other was in the offing, blood about to be shed, fur to fly: it was in the Riddler's noncommittal, 
glittery eyes. 

"With pleasure, my lord. The trip's been dull, long and too full of boring reminiscences I've heard 
before. May I assume we'll be?" 

"Strat, you've got an hour," Crit broke in. 

"Right." And he was gone. 

"I regret I'll have to cut your recreation short you've seen the state of things, Critias." 

"What I can do about it? I don't know, but I expect you'll tell me. The woman here, Bomba, 
knows more about us than I'd think prudent." 

"She's a good friend. You'll billet here, with this last six of yours. Objections?" 

"None. Everyone else in all right? The advance pair? The balance? She said we're 'all accounted 
for'." 

"Stepsons, yes. But Jinan's gone, and both Trs horses. Niko is out seeking Bashirwe've 
much to cover, and no time to spare." And Tempus proceeded to debrief him concerning the state 
of affairs he'd left in Sanctuary, the replacement Stepsons, what had been done for Tamzen's father, 
whether the bodies of the children had been found, matters of covert enterprise concerning the 
Beysibs, Jubal's hawkmasks, One-Thumb and the vampire who lived in Shambles Cross. 

Though he had some successes to report, Crit had thought to leave those stones 
unturnedSanctuary's problems were in essence insoluble; they would keep until the avenging was 
done and glory won in battle. If not for the fact that he'd left the town in the care of guttersnipes and 
slitpurses who were free to maraud in the name of Stepsons, he'd not have given the blighted south 
a second thought, he admitted. The wise and the prudent fled Sanctuary by the score, like fleas 
departing a dead Downwind dog. 

Tempus nodded matter-of-factly, looked around, leaned closer and said, "Speaking of dogs, 
this one's to go to a house on Peace River, a mile downstream from the falls. I want you to deliver it 
to a young woman who calls herself Cybele, one of Niko's girls. The house is large, and the girl is 
suspect, and you're to tell her it must have its krrf three times dailythis much." Tempus pulled a 
silver box from his belt and apportioned enough of the drug for a long evening's revel into a packet, 
then held it out. Crit took it. "Suspect?" 

"Niko's having problems. Possession is a serious charge. We need to confirm the allegations or 


dismiss the charges. The dog will do that." 

dismiss the charges. The dog will do that." 

"You and Straton shouldn't have any trouble. She's expecting the dog and swears she lives 
alone. Tell her you've come from me and you're a friend of Niko's, but don't be forthcoming. I'll 
brief you thoroughly when you return, but right now what you don't know, she can't find out." "A 
witch, then?" 

"Maybe. Maybe just a girl. He's been picking up strays. There's another at the mageguild, a girl 
of thirteen who has just given birth to a son" 

"Not even Niko works that fast." 

Under the table, the dog whined. Tempus shook more krrf into his palm and stuck his hand 
under the table. The dog, in its haste to have its treat, made the table shudder and the wine cups 
teeter. 

Crit did some mental addition: Trs horses gone; Jihan missing; billet here instead of the 
hostel or Outbridge. "Well at least you've got some interesting work for me. I won't pretend I like 
mollycoddling that bunch of ersatz swordsmen we left behind any more than chaperoning this lot up 
here." Grit's eyes shifted to one of the Sacred Band pairs just disappearing beyond the curtain. 

"When you finish with the dog, go familiarize yourself with Grillo's specialsHaram's their task 
force leader; insert a team as close to Grillo as you can without seeming obviousset up your own 
network, use whomever you like, reassemble your old task force whatever you think the situation 
requires. But watch Grillohe's one for playing angles. Stay away from the guild representative, 
Vasili, as much as possible, or he'll read you the rulebook. We'll be writing our own rulebook for 
this one." 

"Just what I hoped you'd say." 

* * * 

Riding through the ashen streets with Critias toward the house where they were supposed to 
deliver the huge, black wolf of a dog that Tempus had entrusted to them, Straton waxed uneasy. A 
krrf-sniffing dog was in itself an oddity; this one, trotting docilely beside them, spooked the horses 
for no apparent reason. 

Crit had come from his meeting with Tempus cranky and self-absorbedworried, he admitted 
when Straton pressed him, that sorcery was involved in this endeavor, no matter how 
straightforward it seemed. Deliver the dog to Niko's girl, make sure she understood that it must 
have its krrf, and get out of there without any additional conversation. 

What business Niko had setting up a girl in noble fashion in a private house a mile downstream 
from the falls so that white water murmured by its back door and the small sounds a guerrilla fighter 
counts upon to warn him in moments of danger were masked, Crit couldn't, or wouldn't say. 

Niko was north on assignment; a mercenary's women weren't usually his commander's concern. 
And this whole set of circumstances reminded Strat so much of Ischade and the house by the White 
Foal in Sanctuary that he was anxious to be done with it: Ischade's beautiful, inky-eyed face 
haunted him still. Crit had made a point of keeping Straton well out of whatever arrangements he 
might have made with her. It hurt Straton's pride to see Critias go to such lengths to protect him; it 
hurt worse to feel that Crit was right: he'd been bewitched by the vampire woman. This chink in his 
armor still rankled. 

"There it is." Crit pulled up his horse and wiped a sooty wrist across his brow. Purple 


thunderheads looming to the north were underlit by the fires yet blazing so that it seemed they rode 
in perpetual sunset, though it was only midafternoon. 

thunderheads looming to the north were underlit by the fires yet blazing so that it seemed they rode 
in perpetual sunset, though it was only midafternoon. 

Lightning flared; thunder followed; his horse shivered, tossing its head. "I wish it would rain." 
Straton's nose was stuffy from the grit he'd been inhaling; the sky threatened, but never made good. 

"We'll just drop off the dog and leave. No long talks. She may be a friend of Niko's, but I got 
the impression that the Riddler wants to be discreet." 

"Send it with a note on its collar, then. It's smarter than some Stepsons I've met." The reference 
to the recruits they'd found for the Sanctuary unit made Crit turn. 

"Don't start. At least we haven't got that whole crew of sellswords to wetnurse. A task force is 
more my size. I'd say we ought to count our blessings." 

"Count 'em after we've walked away from this one. Do you think there's a special reason we're 
making this delivery?" Not for the first time Straton wondered why he always ended up in these 
covert enterprises, rather than facing a clean and mortal enemy on a nice, day bright field of battle. 

"He'll tell us, later. Or not. It's not our job to speculate." Critias spurred his horse forward. He 
called back: "Come on, Straton. Or stay behind. I want to get this over with." 

Straton wasn't going to stay behind. There had been altogether too much of that lately. He 
loosed his horse's reins, and it leaped to catch up, sharing his own feelings about hanging back. 

Cybele's house, once they'd ridden up an overgrown path to its front door, loomed forbiddingly 
in the gloom. Lightning flashed, blue-white, and it looked worse: once a noble building, it had fallen 
into disrepair. Ivy crawled over its two stories, loosening stones and blocking windows; high shade 
trees scraped its roof. Its windows gaped blackly. 

Tethering their horses and walking up to an overhung, trellised door with the dog between them, 
Straton wondered again what interest the Riddler had in Niko's love life, and whether the dog had 
some significancewatchdogs were just not that rare, that Tempus would choose a special 
oneand whether Niko had finally pushed his luck too far. 

Just as Crit was about to knock, the door opened. He called the dog to heel, slapping his thigh, 
and announced to the face behind the latch-strap (wide and blue-eyed and decidedly unmagical 
looking): "Mistress Cybele? We've come from Tempus with the dog he promised." 

The door closed in their faces, then opened wide. 

Straton saw a girl of the sort Niko likedyoung and fair and barely budding. 

Her voice was cultured: "Oh, he's beautiful! Bring him in, please come in." 

"We've just got time to give you his feeding regimen and special instructions." Crit held out a 
piece of parchment. "You do read Rankene?" 

"Oh, certainly, yes; I do." She was innocently fetching. She stared behind at the sanguine sky 
and shivered: "It's upon us, now, the war? I'm all alone and he's not home I can't say how much 
this means." Stuffing the parchment in her belt she knelt down and cooed to the dog: "Come here, 
big boy, come on, come" 

The dog's fur bristled; his lip curled; he growled, backed up two steps, went forward three. 

"That's a good puppy," She let him sniff her hand, then scratched his head. "What's his name?" 

"He hasn't got one. You shouldn't make a pet of a watchdog. And he's high as he can be on 


krrf." As Cybele pulled her hand away and looked at them accusingly, Crit explained: "That's how 
they're best; he'll tear any intruder limb from limb, and he won't eat a poisoned treat put out to 
down him. You have to give him krrf three times a day." He held out a pouch of krrf worth a week's 
pay. "Else he'll get lethargic, seem to have a cold or worse, and maybe bite you in your sleep. Got 
that?" 

krrf." As Cybele pulled her hand away and looked at them accusingly, Crit explained: "That's how 
they're best; he'll tear any intruder limb from limb, and he won't eat a poisoned treat put out to 
down him. You have to give him krrf three times a day." He held out a pouch of krrf worth a week's 
pay. "Else he'll get lethargic, seem to have a cold or worse, and maybe bite you in your sleep. Got 
that?" 

Strat spoke: "We've got to go, soldier. We're late." 

"Wait, oh please. Are you two friends of Niko's? Have you word of himhow long he'll be 
away? Your master said I could ask anyone wearing armbands like yours?" 

"We don't have a 'master," girl." Straton jostled Crit; the dog trotted inside the house. "Lock 
your door. Don't be so forward. Anyone could say they knew your friend and take this place right 
over, you're so anxious for company. If you were smart, you'd move into town. This is no place for 
a child." 

Hurt showed in her eyes, and the door shut thereafter, leaving Critias shaking his head as they 
both walked away. 

"Thank you, Ace." 

"For what?" Strat asked. 

"I don't know why, but I really wanted to go in there. Poor little thing, alone like that, Niko 
gone And I know better." 

* * * 

Inside the house, the Stepsons gone, Randal was having second thoughts. Doing this for 
Tempusinfiltrating the abode of an alleged witch in the guise of a watchdog...hadn't been Randal's 
idea. Tempus had arranged it with the First Hazard, who in turn had come to him and put it in a way 
Randal couldn't refuse: a temporary truce between Tempus and the mageguild might lead to a 
permanent alliance; even if it didn't, joining forces to defeat Datan was in itself a worthy endeavor. 
And Randal, with the aid of correlative spells from the finest sorcerers in Tyse, would surely fool the 
witch. Nisibisi or not, she was basically no more powerful than the whole Tysian mageguild. 
Wizardwall's pretensions, of a master race and superior bloodlines born to enchantment, were 
nothing more than propaganda. 

For himself, Randal would gain a gradehe'd be a junior no more, when this was over. All he 
had to do was perform this minor treachery with his guild behind him, and he'd be a full-fledged 
member of the Hazard class. He hoped Niko wasn't this witch's willing accomplice; that was 
treachery too foul. He didn't want to run home telling tales of venal Stepsons. Tempus had 
abrogated a long-standing rule of his by joining forces with enchanters; every mage involved knew 
his Order to be on trial. If Niko was in feckless thrall, then all Randal had to do was figure out how 
to save him. He looked up at the Nisibisi witch and wagged his tail. 

She called him: "Here, doggie." 

He slunk over, stifling a sneeze and reciting in his mind a warding spell. 

The krrf he had eaten should help maintain the spell and his courage, keep his allergies in check. 

"Good dog, that's the boy," she crooned, and he strove to penetrate illusion, find the witch 
beneath the innocent facade. Her hands were soft and long, their touch on his ears and fur 
immensely pleasurable. If he hadn't smelled the sorcery charm and ward and ophidian 
danknesshe'd think the Riddler might be wrong. 


His eyes half closed reflexively; he knew his tongue lolled: one could not be an animal only in 
name. He opened them, an act of will, and saw her changing form before him, murmuring: "It's all 
right, hound puppy, see? I still smelland amthe same." 

His eyes half closed reflexively; he knew his tongue lolled: one could not be an animal only in 
name. He opened them, an act of will, and saw her changing form before him, murmuring: "It's all 
right, hound puppy, see? I still smelland amthe same." 

Despite himself, Randal whined and shivered and felt his belly touch the floor: this was not just 
any Nisibisi witch, but fearsome, fabled Roxane, bane of the Tysian mageguild, adept assassin, 
queen of undeads, "Death's Queen" in Nisibisi lore. 

He almost howled; he froze, instead, in panic, hoping he could hold his form, not break and run 
as man or mouse or flea. He thought of all there was at stake: Niko's tortured soul, Tempus and an 
end to a bloodfeud with his brother mages which had gone on for centuries, his own life should 
Roxane see through his dog-disguise and all the krrf and brother mages he'd used to reinforce it. 

Then he smelled snake so strong and close he almost gagged, and the witch rose up, taller now, 
and shedding a blue afterglow of power which lit the shadowed room, now more opulent and 
gracious in appointments than it had been before or any Peace Falls dwelling had the right to be, 
and told him "Stay," and disappeared through the farther doorway. 

With Roxane gone, he calmed his heart and tried to think, but snake odor still assailed him, and 
he snuffled around the edges of the room to find its source. As he reached the doorway, he heard 
low sounds of conversation. His canine ears detected words, a man's: "Vasili's death won't" and 
Roxane's: "Use this. It will tell the tale we need to spread, incriminate the Successors." 

And then, as Randal sat quite still, his head cocked, something hissed close by, and a basket up 
against the wall began to teeter. He backed a step, then used his nose: therefrom, the smell of 
snake. 

House snakes, writhing, tipped their basket over, then slithered out to arch up on their coils and 
hiss at him. The closest one, its tongue protruding, swayed back and forth, and the dog in him took 
over: he'd bounded in and fastened his powerful jaws on its neck, behind its head, before he knew 
it. 

A cry, quite human, anguished, long, came forth from somewhere. Snakes have no vocal cords. 
He didn't pay attention. The instinct of his change-form had taken over: he shook it in his jaws and 
ground his teeth on its neck; it hardly struggled; its writhing soon ceased. He was chewing on it, its 
lifeless body stretched between his paws, when human feet appeared before him, and fearful curses 
rang out above. 

Then: "Bad dog! Get back! Away!" 

It was Roxane, and around her neck the second house snake curled, its tongue aflicker. 

He'd done something wrong; he cowered, whined, sat back and lay down flat, his expression as 
mournful as he could make it, his head between his paws. 

He sensed her wrath, its smell, its fury. Then the rage darkening her complexion came visibly 
under control as three men in Tysian dress rushed in to see what the trouble was. 

"Nothing, gentle sirs. My dog he's new he ate a house snake. Poor dog, he did what any 
dog would do." Her voice was tremulous. She herded the men back the way they'd come, and just 
in time: the house snake he'd been eating was beginning to take other shapes, in death mimicking 
every form its life had ever known. 

* * * 


Among the refugees in the free zone, Niko and Bashir moved easily, their horses left beyond the 
crumbling wall where the Successors' tunnel came up to ground level in a burned out, abandoned 
barn. 

Among the refugees in the free zone, Niko and Bashir moved easily, their horses left beyond the 
crumbling wall where the Successors' tunnel came up to ground level in a burned out, abandoned 
barn. 

"You promised we'd not get drunk on this." Niko slapped the empty wineskin at his hip, 
grabbed Bashir's arm and steered him around a tumble of poke-ribbed children eating garbage in 
the street and ready to defend their pile of rotting rinds and suet and slop with sharpened sticks and 
jagged teeth. 

"I am not drunk," Bashir replied thickly, shrugging Niko's hand away and walking an elaborately 
careful straight line for six steps before his arms shot out to balance him and he tottered. 

Niko put out a hand to save Bashir from a fall, pretending he was steadying his own uncertain 
progress. "You're not. I am. And I can't show up like this We've your reputation to protect, if" 

"Excuse me." Bashir stopped, retched between two low black tents, then straightened, fumbling 
in his pouch. 

"Here." He handed Niko a sprig of mint and a small packet of krrf mixed four-to-one with 
pulcis. "Chew the mint, snort the powder, and we'll be sober as foxes, sweet-smelling as farm 
maids, yes?" 

Niko sniffed the clay-colored powder, the mint in his mouth, and everything around became 
preternaturally clear. 

He handed the packet back to Bashir, who did likewise. "Shrivel me, that's better. Now, 
Stealth, escort me to your mighty, much-vaunted immortal. Let us steal upon him out of shadows, 
though, break through his perimeter as you did mine; it befits my mood to descend upon this 
meeting place from the rear." 

"Anything is possible." 

But when they got to the tent Tempus had designated as a meeting place, things looked less than 
hopeful: despite the need for secrecy, here in the free zone, a dozen operatives were stationed 
around the tent in varying degrees of disguise, their posture and their swagger belying darned 
mantles and three-day beards. One was off by himself, interrogating a prisoner lashed to a wagon's 
wheel, and that prisoner had the braided sidelocks of a Successor of Free Nisibis. 

"Is this the kind of talk your commander thinks to have with me? Even for you, Niko, I'll not 
chance it." Bashir moved closer to him, dark eyes troubled in his oval, bearded face, his skin pallid 
in the foggy twilight, his broad forehead etched with worry lines. 

"I know how it looks, what you're thinking," Niko whispered. "Stay here, out of sight. Be quiet. 
I'll give the jackal call, then come back myself to get you. If it's not me who comes looking, or you 
hear no call, then I'll be dead, and you'll be on your own. As for your man, there must be some 
good reason, but I'll see what I can do." 

"Success, then." 

"And to you." Niko slipped away, backtracked, crossed the dirt track and approached the tent 


and wagon from the upwind side. 

and wagon from the upwind side. 

"Hold yourself, Ari. You're about as subtle as a siege engine. What's afoot? Why is that 
Successor strung up there?" 

The beggar behind backed off; Niko heard him grunt as he resumed his seat. 

Ari pulled him by the elbow to his stall. "Afoot? Have you not heard? Vasili's been murdered 
shot. The arrow in his neck was made in Free Nisibishelical fletching, it's their handiwork, all 
right. And don't go marching over there to tell him his business that one's the task force leader's 
boyfriend, some interrogation specialist very nasty. It's nothing much to worry about" 

"Nothing much Does Tempus know of this? Where's Grillo?" 

"In the tent, there. But no one's allowed inside Niko? Niko?" 

But Niko was already striding away, toward the tent. Halfway there, he was stopped by two 
men he didn't know and told the same: no admittance. 

He considered mayhem, remembered Bashir, watching, and approached the interrogator 
instead. 

"Turn this man loose." He clapped his hand on the interrogator's shoulder and spun him around: 
"Straton!" 

The mud-specked, dirty face which had been scowling began to smirk. "Niko! I don't think you 
can save this one, but I warned Crit you'd want to try. Have you seen Grit? Or Tempus? You 
haven't, yet? They're waiting for you. This one'll keep, come on, I'll take you in." 

But Niko didn't move."Let that man go. I can't bring Bashir in here with you torturing one of his 
people before his eyes" He stopped before he made it worse. Straton was no one to offend. 

"They killed the guild representative, Vasili," Straton shrugged."Or at least that's what the 
evidence seems to indicate. I can't confirm it from any I've interviewed. But I'll wait on this one, until 
you've seen the Riddler. Now come with me." 

Within the tent, Grillo, Critias and Tempus fell silent as the flap was raised and Straton ushered 
Niko through. "Niko has voiced some strong objections to the interrogation in progress. He thinks, 
with Bashir watching, it might not be a good idea." 

Grille's handsome head came up: "Bashir? Here?" 

Crit, back to Niko, sitting crosslegged before a low map table, twisted in his seat. "That's 
something, anyway." In his hand he had an arrow with helical fletching."Take a look at this." He 
bared his teeth."And welcome back." 

Niko, eyes locked eyes with Tempus, then examined the arrow and handed it back. "Plenty of 
men didn't like Vasili, myself included. And helically-fletched arrows can be had six for a soldat 
right here in the free zone. I brought someone important to you," he said to Tempus, "for reasons 
you said were sufficient. I can't believe you'd throw three weeks work and more away to find a 
scapegoat." 

"Do you have him?" Grillo demanded. 

"He got him," Crit said quietly, looking Niko up and down, "he's just not sure that we deserve 
him. Let's prove we do: Straton, go turn that Successor loose with our apologies and some money." 

"Gladly," said Strat, in a tone that said he'd expected exactly this result, and ducked through the 


flap. 

flap. 

He refused: "I'm not bringing him in here. He's a friend of mine. He'll meet with the Riddler 
alone." 

Grille's head snapped around, and he examined Niko, for the first time looking the Stepson in 
the eye. 

Crit remarked that it wasn't only Grille's specials who needed discipline. Stooped over in the 
low tent, Tempus came to stand beside Niko and said, very low: "Are you unwell?" 

Then: "Come with me, we'll get some air, Niko. You two, try solving this murder mystery of 
yours another way. Niko's right: anyone can buy a Nisibisi arrow." 

Niko followed the Riddler out into the twilight, and the light suited his mood. "Grille's running 
weaponry and supplies to the Successors in exchange for drags and security. I'm not supposed to 
know and I didn't tell you." 

"Good. Now, Niko do you have a message for me something you forgot?" 

"Forgot? I" He froze, words stillborn on his tongue, remembering a wolf who spoke and a 
note he'd written to himself and put carefully away so that he would remember and then forgot. 
He found himself on the verge of tears, unable to look Tempos in the face. Fumbling in his belt 
pouch, he found the bit of parchment and held it out. His hands were shaking."Here. I I'm sorry, 
sir. I don't know what's the matter with me." 

Tempos took the grimy, wrinkled piece of parchment, read the text, nodded, and told Niko not 
to worry, that he understood Niko's problem, and was working on a solution. For his part, Niko 
must only have faith and not question others' motives: the Sacred Band took care of its own. And: 
"Now, where's Bashir?" 

"I can't tell you until you promise me he'll not be harmed. Not interrogated. Not detained." 

"Done. Now, where is he?" 

Niko told him, and Tempus nodded."And signals? Have you any? Give them." 

Niko explained about the jackal call. 

"Take me to him. Introduce us and take your leave. I'll guarantee his safety. There's a girl waiting 
for you at the mage-guild, I've been told, who's had a son. And other things to attend to, I'm sure. 
Take a few days rest. We'll call you when we need you." 

They were walking circuitously toward Bashir's hiding place. "Bashir we've both had too 
much blood wine and too much krrf and pulcis. You'd best explain about that Successor very 
clearly. And I know he wants to stay with me. We've arranged it. Down by the river, I've a friend 
with a house." 

"Do you? All right. I'll see to it he discovers Brother Bomba's, and you can meet him there and 
take him with you, if he wishes. But he should stay at Outbridge, where we can offer him protection. 
I'll have to tell him that." 

They skirted a pile of refuse. "And Niko? Your maat?" 

Niko chuckled mirthlessly. "I can't even find my rest-place, anymore." He thought he should 
have lied, said that he was fine, but it wasn't true and he was sure that Tempus saw it. 

At the proper distance, Niko gave forth a jackal call and heard an answer. They came up to the 


spot where Niko and Bashir had parted company; the Successor was nowhere to be seen. 
"Bashir? Bashir?" he whispered, pulse pounding in his throat. 

spot where Niko and Bashir had parted company; the Successor was nowhere to be seen. 
"Bashir? Bashir?" he whispered, pulse pounding in his throat. 

Behind them, Bashir rose up from shapeless shadows, a blade glinting in the lowering dark. 
"And who is this, Stealth?" He kept his distance, his weapon drawn but not threatening. 

"My commander, the man we spoke of. Bashir, Tempus; Tempus" 

"I knew your father. He died on his feet, eyes uplifted," Tempus interrupted. "As you've seen, 
this is not a propitious time or place for meeting. Will you come with me to Outbridge? There I can 
offer you information, safe food and drink, and a bargain I think your father would have liked." 

"Niko? What say you? Shall we trust him?" Bashir's up-slanted eyes glittered in his broad face; 
his gaze went beyond them, to where the empty interrogation wheel was; his mobile mouth drew 
wide: he was teasing. 

"Aye." 

"Stealth has another assignment, he can't go with us. We've arranged for you two to meet later. 
Now, I must talk with you alone." 

Bashir grinned, a flash of teeth, and agreed, saying he knew that if anything else unforseen 
happened, Niko would take word home to the Successors. It was the most veiled of warnings. 

"Nothing," Tempus promised, "is going to happen to you, Bashir, while you are my guest. Niko, 
you'd better hurry." 

Dismissed, Niko wandered off alone through the havoc of the free zone, his eyes narrowed 
against the squalor in the streets, uncertain and uneasy. If Tempus was lying, if harm came to Bashir, 
then it was on Niko's head, a heavy debt to repay, an insupportable error. His mantle thrown wide 
to the night chill, its yellow lining keeping the refugees away, his armband turned round so that the 
Sacred Band bulls-and-lightning showed clearly, he passed through the gates and out into Tyse 
unchallenged by civilian or sentry. 

Tempus knew about the girl his horse had injured north of the Nisibisi border. The mage Randal, 
then, must have kept his word. But somehow the Riddler had found out that Niko had made a 
bargain with the junior Hazard. Perhaps that was why he was being banished, dismissed like a 
picket and told to take "a few days rest." 

Whatever Bashir and Tempus were going to talk about, Niko's commander did not want Niko 
to know. 

Feeling pestilential and ill-used, he sought out the barn in which they'd left their horses and, 
ponying Bashir's, rode down to Peace Falls, downhearted and sick from the drugs and drink, 
dreading he knew not what: the undeads who had shown themselves in Free Nisibis wouldn't dare 
plague him here. He'd finished the krrf-and-pulcis mixture by the time he reached Cybele's river 
house. He was hungry and tired. He'd stopped in briefly at Bomba's to see if any of the Sacred 
Banders were there and had gotten so cool a reception from two of them that he'd left straightaway. 
It could be that all of them knew he'd had dealings with a Tysian magician; it could be that the loss 
of two partners had made him a pariah among those he loved the best. 

When the bay was curried and went down on his knees with a whicker of pleasure to roll 
around in knee-deep fresh straw in his stall, and Bashir's horse was fed and watered, he went up to 
the house and found he had to knock; the leather latch-strap was drawn in, the door bolted 
securely. But there was light in the windows. 

A dog barked furiously. Claws scrabbled against the door. He heard her voice and leaned his 


head against the doorjamb. At least Cybele would be glad to see him. 

head against the doorjamb. At least Cybele would be glad to see him. 

"No matter," she said, pulling him inside "We'll clean your gear and put you in hot watera 
bath; one for me, too." She giggled and he shut the door. 

"That's a big dog." It curled its lip at him, cocked its head and sneezed. It was black, huge and 
formidable. Yet its tail thumped the floorboards, wagging, and it had not attacked him when he 
stepped inside. 

"A gift from your commander. Oh, Niko, he came to see me while you were away, to see if I 
needed anything, and I said I was frightened, alone, so he sent me the dog...You are frowning. 
You're angry? Why? He didn't mind." 

Niko bent down and put out his hand. The dog offered its paw. He shook it gravely. "Some 
watchdog, this." 

But she was already headed down the hall, calling back that she'd start his dinner and their bath 
at once, but that he must bathe before he ate. 

In her tub, his panoply cleaned and hung upon a rack and his undershirt and breech burning in 
the oven (too filthy to be saved, she'd said), she joined him, laughing and teasing him, her nimble 
fingers rubbing the fatigue from his cramped muscles as if by magic. Grouse roasting and potatoes 
baking filled the whole kitchen with a wonderful aroma. 

"I don't know how you do all this," he remarked, his head back, eyes closed, content to let her 
sponge the hot water over him, one hand upon her supple thigh. 

"For you, I can do anything. Now you must tell me how you got so dirty, and what reason was 
good enough to keep you away from me so long." As she spoke, her smooth leg slid along him and 
the water, a perfect temperature, lapped against his chest. 

"What's this?" She'd found the long scrape on his arm he'd gotten in the tunnel and she scrubbed 
at the garlicky scab there: "Primitive! Garlic does nothing for wounds, no more than for warding off 
magic. Only love heals." And she kissed him, touching him, then eased atop him so that his eyes 
opened to see her hair, golden with jewels of water drops in it, spread out upon his chest as her lips 
caressed him. 

"Cybele!" He pulled her head up. "You cannot wait? You'll drown!" 

"I have waited long enough for you," she pouted and one of the candles guttered, then another. 
In one of the other rooms, the dog began to howl. 

He touched her breast and a sigh came out of her. "I've got to go out later. I'm so tired if we 
make love now, I'll surely fall asleep." 

"Good, then. Sleep is what you need. Why should you have to go back on duty?" 

"No." He hoisted himself gently up and out of the tub. She followed, water shining on her skin, 
no petulance about her, to get him toweled dry. 

"Sit!" she commanded, pointing to the kitchen table. She dried his hair and held his head 
between her breasts. He couldn't refrain from touching them, each in turn, or from kissing the water 
from her skin. She'd been a virgin when he took her off the street; she was a virgin yet. With young 
girls he'd found it best to let them wait until they couldn't wait a moment longer; then they had a 


good beginning, came to a man's arms slick and hot and free from doubt. 

good beginning, came to a man's arms slick and hot and free from doubt. 

She cried out that she loved him, and he'd made her wait too long, and rose up under him and 
wrapped her legs around him so that he had to get his shoulders under her knees to gain control. 
And what he felt when she began to quiver, he'd never felt in a new girl before, or in his own 
response to one. 

He said so: "Usually, it's not like this for me until later till a girl's experienced." 

"I love you," she muttered thickly from underneath his arm. "You'll need no other girls, just me. 
I'll make you happy. You won't want" 

He chuckled, sliding out and off of her. That, at least, was normal. 

Then she sat bolt upright. "The potatoes! Oh, devils save me; I've burned them." And naked, off 
she ran to salvage his homecoming meal. 

Somehow, she'd cleaned his gear and fed him and found time to cuddle up against him and even 
fall asleep. He held her in the crook of his arm before the hearth and wondered if he had the 
strength to go out again tonight." He mustn't keep Bashir waiting... 

He looked up, and the black dog was hovering near. He thought at first it wanted scraps, to lick 
their plates, but it stared at him and stared at him and sneezed and scraped its nose. 

Strangely, it seemed familiar. But no, it couldn't be He put thoughts of wolves and mages from 
his mind and set about dressing to go out; the first part (slipping out of Cybele's embrace without 
waking her) was the most difficult. 

When he put his weight against the heavy door to open it soundlessly upon its hinges, the black 
dog lunged past him and out into the night. 

* * * 

For the Stepsons' use, the Outbridge station now had a chapel dedicated to the gods of the 
armies and filled with implements of war. In Enlil's vault, Tempus met at length with Bashir of the 
Successors, deep below ground among the weapons and the dead. 

This warrior-priest of Free Nisibis made Tempus uneasy: his upswept eyes which saw for gods 
and sometimes turned within, unseeing, to take Their counsel, reminded Tempus of Abarsis; in all 
other waysfrom wide, flat face to broad, thick limbshe was his father's son, long on guile and 
comfortable in the company of death-dealing, vengeful gods. 

It was easier to enlist Bashir's aid in the assault on Wizardwall than to warn him of Niko's plight. 
A soiti. up-country with a warrior-priest of Enlil meant advancing upon warlocks with the god's 
sanction; the Successors' leader knew the crags and craved to pray atop them; to consecrate a 
temple to the Storm God where the Osprey's keep now affronted piety was Bashir's fondest dream. 

But to explain why Niko's hospitality must be shunned, Tempus had to admit that he himself had 
entered into an accommodation with Tyse's mageguild. Even for Niko's soul's sake, this was hard to 
justify. Only Critias, of all the Stepsons, knew the full extent of the Riddler's involvement with the 
mageguild; even Tempus was distressed at having to join forces with the Hazards. Not in all the 


wars he'd fought had he ever warred in tandem with magicians; if Niko's predicament had not been 
his commander's fault, Tempus would have shunned them yet, and let the boy meet his damned and 
heinous end. 

wars he'd fought had he ever warred in tandem with magicians; if Niko's predicament had not been 
his commander's fault, Tempus would have shunned them yet, and let the boy meet his damned and 
heinous end. 

Then Crit came trotting down the stairs, smiling his most cynical smile: "Randal's here. I thought 
you'd want to see him. He hasn't got much time." Grit's sharp eyes assessed the progress of 
negotiations: the incense burnt, the food spread out on polished stones, the wine jugs spent by 
Bashir's unshod, propped-up feet. "I'll stay and go over maps and some logistical considerations 
with Bashir, if it pleases my lords? Also, Grillo's sent a copy of a message from Adrastus Ajami, 
saying that Machad will be Mygdonian by month's end; it's already under siege." 

Grit's forthcoming speech was for Bashir's benefit, to let the priest know just how efficient and 
formidable a network he was being inducted into, and where Critias stood in Tempus's 
estimationit was Crit with whom Bashir would have to come to terms on a workaday basis, since 
he was second in command. 

"Bring him down, Critias. And I'll want you here. When we're through with this, we'll all be going 
to Bomba's. Arrange to be free for the rest of the evening." 

Crit left to get the junior Hazard, and Bashir sat up among his cushions: "I'm not sure this is the 
proper place for meeting wizards, or that I should dignify this aberration by my presence" 

Tempus merely stared at him until Bashir continued: "But I've seen for myself that Niko's 
troubled; the gods have turned away from him; Enlil has forgotten his name. He spoke of going 
back to Bandara, the western sanctuaries, when his tour with you is done, to try to solve his 
problems with the secular adepts. He's never been a man for gods; I'd thought, since he was with 
you, perhaps this too might change." 

"Gods, these days, don't speak to me." 

"Ah, but they look over your shoulder. Your Rankan Storm God's penned by magic. Defeat 
Datan, and you might loose the Pillager again. If He were not merely out of play, Enlil would love to 
have you, but one god may not vie with another for adherents. Jealousy among the planes causes 
havoc in the world of men." 

"So my curse falls on innocents like Niko, and even the Nameless One's daughterJihan, from 
the loins of the Storm-bringer Himselfis bound up in its evil." 

Bashir picked his teeth with a thin, long blade that resided in his bracer. "There are other friends 
of yours entelechies, lords of upper planes, one who rules the seventh sphere of dream and 
shadow Things, revered Riddler, are not so bad as you make them seem. We will rout the 
Osprey, reclaim your wondrous horses, free my friend's soul like that." He snapped his 
fingers."All Successors will rally to such a just and" 

"Six. I want just six of yours, and your own presence as upcountry avatar and spiritual guide. 
Until I'm cleansed of this taint of magic" 

By the time Critias brought Randal down, they'd finalized their pact and were on to specifics of 
the plan: Bashir would guide the Stepsons north, up Wizardwall's high peaks, if the gods allowed; 
Wizardwall and all its riches beyond what loot each Stepson could carry down would be Bashir's; 
the Successors would have their homeland, rule in their beloved mountains with no obligation to 
Ranke, Mygdonia, or even to the Riddler himself. 

But Randal's report almost caused the newborn alliance to belly-up before it learned to swim: 
the junior Hazard, puffing hard and wild-eyed, was nearly addled from all the krrf he'd had to take 


to keep his allergies in check and his courage resolute, and the burden his new knowledge placed 
upon him: 

to keep his allergies in check and his courage resolute, and the burden his new knowledge placed 
upon him: 

"Slow down!" Critias exploded. "Sit, light somewhere!" 

Randal circled around in place as if still the dog he'd so recently been, sighed deeply, and 
squatted down where he was: "Sirs lords you don't understand. If I'm going back, I've got 
to leave here straightaway. Anything that Niko knows, Roxane knows also she's inside him all the 
time, eating up his soul. And she's sharing him with Datan, as far as I can tell that's the 
archmage" 

"We know who he is," Crit interrupted. "Now what's this about her being inside him? Are you 
positive? How can we free him?" 

Bashir shifted restlessly, his gaze averted, apparently studying the maps before him; Tempus 
heard a god's name muttered, saw fingers work in invocation. 

"Free him?" Randal repeated."You can't. Death won't even do it. Burn the witch it's not 
certain, just a start. Or buy him back from Datan, who could make her loose him. A trade we've 
done that before..." 

"No!" Bashir's voice rang out. "No deals with magelings or their devils." 

"No!" Randal looked from Tempus to Critias. "Who's this? Look here, my lords, I've got to 
go if you want me to get back in there" He started to rise. 

Crit strode over, put a hand upon his shoulder. "Tempus?" 

"He's right, a trade won't do. Randal, come with me: Critias, confer with our guest about 
personnel and troop strength. If Mygdonia is entering Machad, we haven't got much time. We have 
to secure the peaks before they reach Tyse's borders, or all this will be in vain. Meet us at Bomba's 
in an hour or so." 

And, to Bashir: "Son of my brother, work well." 

"Gods go with you," Bashir replied, and blessed him openly so that Randal scrambled up and, 
shuddering, backed across the room to bolt up the stairs and Tempus had to chase him. 

At the stairs' head, he caught the mage."Be calm, mageling. He won't hurt you." 

"Who was that? Nisibisi sidelocks was it? No, you wouldn't. It couldn't be one of the 
murder-god's lovers ...Could it?" 

"Randal, you've a lot to learn about expediency and war. The real constitution of things is 
accustomed to hide itself. That is, an unappirent connection is stronger than an apparent. Those 
factions whom I join together in this venture are all expressions of the same force, like wind and 
water, fire and ether, the wet and the dry, which feed upon their opposites. Do you understand 
me?" 

"No. Without gods there is the order of magic; with gods, there is the chaos of emotion. Magic 
is logic; gods are il-logic" 

"Exactly. There, you do comprehend. Nothing exists without its opposite. To triumph in this 


matter, we will bring opposites to bear. How would you like to become a Stepson?" 

matter, we will bring opposites to bear. How would you like to become a Stepson?" 

"Your bravery is proven. Most of your sort would have fled when they learned the identity of the 
witch. Your weapons will be those with which you are familiar: spells and so forth; we'll not have 
time to make you a man at arms. But I'm asking you to become Niko's right-side partner in the 
action brewing, to climb with us up Wizardwall and do battle with your hereditary enemies, every 
one of Datan's clutch of evil beings...from demon to witch." 

"Why don't you just make me do it; go over my head and have the First Hazard give the order? 
No, I'm being unfair. I like Niko too." 

"Is that an answer? Have you volunteered?" 

"We'll need the Hazard's permission. And, I mean do I get a horse? I don't have to be 
fourfooted, do I?" 

Tempus chuckled. "I'll give you one of mine." 

"Does this mean I don't have to go back to Roxane's Cybele's that is?" 

"Are you endangered here?" 

"No more than Niko is." The mageling squared his shoulders: "A Stepson who'd have thought 
it? All right, given the mageguild's assent, I'm yours to command for the duration master." 

"Stepsons have no master. I'm their commander, Critias is my second, Straton is next in line." 

"What of Grillo?" 

"An advisor, a co-worker. Don't pass him any information; he gets too much through the 
mageguild network as it is." 

"He's very close to you-know-whothe priest down there." 

"We've gathered that. It's none of our affair. Now, back to work, Stepson. I'll expect to hear 
from you in three days' time. If Niko doesn't return home tonight, we'll have lured him out here or to 
the mageguild, where I hope to get a second opinion on his condition. Do you think he favors that 
girl you brought in for him enough to pay a visit there?" 

"Niko? He likes his ladies. You might get him there but the witch will know, and the girl and 
child may be in jeopardy Oh, I see: you want to lure Roxane forth, is that it?" 

"Go on, now, Randal. If Straton doesn't come to the Peace River house looking for Niko, stay 
in place. If he does, that's your signal to get out of there as fast as you can and come straight here. 
Understood?" 

The mageling held out a sweaty hand. 

He'd be sufficient to his tasks, Tempus realized, as the youngster strode away. 

Then he had to face his own responsibilities: no reason left to delay, no way to put it off. 

Niko's note had been quite plain; all Tempus had to do, to begin unraveling this mess he'd made, 

was humble himself before the lord of dreams and call his sister, his heart's bane, down from her 
sojourn among the planes. 

He really didn't want to do this. But too many fates had become entangled with his own. 

In the stable, saddling up to ride out among the mists and the intermittent lightning of the mages' 
feints which made late autumn out of summer skies, he nearly said a prayer for Niko, but managed 
to refrain. He shouldn't let himself feel so much for these youngsters, or love his Stepsons the way 


he did. But without the god to occupy his mind, his curse owned him fully. 

he did. But without the god to occupy his mind, his curse owned him fully. 

Without her, he had a feeling all his plans would come to naughtNiko die with soul enthralled, 
consigned to deep damnation; Bashir would learn that gods were not so omnipotent or omniscient 
as they claimed and bury Successors rather than pylons deep in the high peaks earth; and 
himselfwell, if Datan wanted battle-won souls to do his bidding, an old one such as his might be 
the prize of all the ages. 

He would have to wait and see, he thought, stopping only long enough to stroke Niko's pregnant 
mare and promise her he'd have him back home soon, safe and sound and soul intact. 

She whinnied softly, reassured. 

* * * 

When the last sounds of Niko's horses had faded and she was sure that he was well away, 
Roxane cast aside her Cybele-form, made a scullery maid of her one remaining snake and oversaw 
the clean-up of the kitchen. She could have willed the mess away, but the snake, its sibling gone, 
was being punished. Stupid snake must learn enough to stay out of the watchdog's way. Impulsive 
and foolhardy, the snake her dog had chewed the life from deserved its fate thrice over. But its 
death presented problemsshe hadn't used her water bowl to report to Datan or sent her soul on 
high in person because when she did she'd have to say one snake was dead. 

And she'd nothing crucial to report yet; when Niko came back from this meet with Tempus and 
his Stepsons, she hoped to know more; she hoped he'd bring Bashir back here, where "natural 
causes" would soon end the Successor's life. 

In the kitchen she picked up Niko's cuirass gingerly, as if it were offal, not metal, then changed 
her mind and left it with sword and dirk upon its drying rack. She'd had to prompt him not to take it 
with him; he'd gone out in dark shirt and tollman's trousers, not giving it a second thought. She'd find 
a way to claim it lost or stolen; it cramped her style. To keep it cool she'd needed to take extra care 
with her disguise and never once let hostility to Niko overwhelm her: it was magic hostile to the 
wearer which energized the dirk and sword and cuirass into action. 

This loving Niko was not difficult; it was too easy. So long inside his mind had taught her to 
appreciate qualities she'd never understood: kindness, youth, naivete. She spoke a curse which 
froze the snake in horror, and it dropped a stoneware plate. Would that Datan, lover-lord, had half 
the sense of duty to which this child adhered so willingly, a heavy burden proudly toted that gave 
meaning to a life of struggle no Nisibisi warlock would endure. 

She sighed and wiped her brow and sat up on the kitchen table where so recently they'd "made 
love," as Niko said. She'd never for a moment had to feign her passion; she'd almost let her 
Cybele-face slip away when first he came inside her, so transported by ecstasy was she. 

Once she'd thought to murder him and nibble on his sweet young soul a morsel at a time; she 
might make it last a year. Now she thought of saving him intact, keeping him a minion in delectable 
servitudealive, a willing servant who would give her pleasure year by year. 

And this complicated simple measures: she could not send the snake with a few undeads to slay 
him as he rode home with Bashir. She told herself that she yet needed him to spy on Tempus, 
though the crafty Riddler gave out precious little information to any man, somehow thwarting her at 
every turn as if by accident, though she knew no "fate" or "luck" was so consistent. 

She'd failed to turn Bashir away with the undeads sent in Niko's wake to daunt the priest and 
cast a shadow over their reunion. She'd take the soul of Enlil's priest instead, though she felt with 


Niko every pain and shared his sadness and his troubles. If she could, she'd have whisked her 
Stepson up to Wizardwall tonight and kept him there; she'd soon make him a willing captive of the 
pleasure she longed to share with him. 

Niko every pain and shared his sadness and his troubles. If she could, she'd have whisked her 
Stepson up to Wizardwall tonight and kept him there; she'd soon make him a willing captive of the 
pleasure she longed to share with him. 

She laughed a harsh and angry laugh, and her snake, its work done, scuttled away. 

She'd have him spurn the slut he had waiting for him in the mageguild, the one Tempus kept 
reminding him to see. That whole encounter with the wolf-mage had been inauspicious; much energy 
had gone into making Nikodemos forget, and then the Riddler had found a way to get the dream 
lord's message from him. She'd done the best she could; she couldn't chance destroying Niko's 
mind completely; he was too useful. 

But she needed something favorable, a triumph to report to Datan, not merely a listing of 
aborted possibilities, a chronicle of little failures. 

And he'd let the dog out; she heard it scratching at the door right now. Almost, she arose to let it 
in, but Niko was even then approaching Brother Bomba's and the dog would learn a lesson; let it 
wail all night upon her stoop, at least till Niko and Bashir came home. 

She deepened her trance and, leaning back, closed her eyes so that she could see through his. 

And because of her preoccupation with Nikodemos and her scheming, it never once occurred 
to Roxane to wonder why Tempus had refrained from mentioning to Niko anything about the 
Riddler's trip to see her or that he'd given her the dog, but only remarked, "Do you?" when Niko 
said that he'd a friend down by the river, and there Bashir had agreed to lodge. 

When Niko arrived at Brother Bomba's, Bashir's horse in tow and his crossbow in his hand, 
Madame Bomba herself showed him through the crowd and down the stairs to where Crit and 
Bashir sucked on bubbly pipes awaiting Tempus. 

"Now, Stealth," she said, "don't think I'm being forward, but I've a proposition for you your 
uncle in Caronne, you see he's a man I crave an introduction to." 

"It's been years" 

"He loves you, kin and all. Just a note from you; I'd like to be his client. I'll make you wealthy, 
you won't have to do a thing." She let go of his arm, stepped back. "Here we are. They're right in 
there. What say you? Do an old woman of the armies a favor, soldier?" 

She was a friend of Tempus', he knew. Still, he never traded on that family relationship; he owed 
his uncle far too much and he'd refused to come into the family business; they'd parted on uneasy 
terms. But then, life was full of obligations: "A note, you say? Give me paper and I'll write it. But as 
a favor, Madame; you're a good friend to the Stepsons. Show the Sacred Band your usual 
generosity; help the Riddler. I don't want anything more for this. It's nothing much to write a letter." 
As he spoke, with the quill and paper she pulled out of her voluminously pocketed apron, he wrote 
his uncle: Madame Bomba would have her contraband at half the going price. 

"May I read it?" Eager as a child, she scanned the lines, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his 
cheek. He grinned at her and shook his head; he saw the child within her: what a wench she must 
once have been. 

Then she slid aside the thin partition and Bashir rose up to embrace him; their lips met in 
northern greeting, and he heard a derisive snicker come from somewhere among the dozen men 
within the smoke-filled chamber. Whether it was at his expense, he couldn't say. Half these men 


stretched out on mats with pipes and blown-glass jars before them were Stepsons, Sacred 
Banders; the rest were specials and a pair of side-locked free men of Nisibis; none of them had the 
right to smirk. But upstairs as Madame Bomba brought him through he'd seen others of his 
squadron and got no more in greeting than a wave or nod of head. From the two who'd ridden with 
him out of Sanctuary he'd asked for moresome indication that their promises to act in his behalf 
had been fulfilled. Distant stares and taut mouths were what he'd gotten; no one wanted him too 
close, that much was clear. 

stretched out on mats with pipes and blown-glass jars before them were Stepsons, Sacred 
Banders; the rest were specials and a pair of side-locked free men of Nisibis; none of them had the 
right to smirk. But upstairs as Madame Bomba brought him through he'd seen others of his 
squadron and got no more in greeting than a wave or nod of head. From the two who'd ridden with 
him out of Sanctuary he'd asked for moresome indication that their promises to act in his behalf 
had been fulfilled. Distant stares and taut mouths were what he'd gotten; no one wanted him too 
close, that much was clear. 

Niko saw Grit's hawk eyes watching. He tugged on Bashir's laden belt and slipped free of him, 
replying, "There are weapons at hand here if I need them. I had to sneak away without waking a 
certain lady." He hoped he'd hidden the uneasiness he felt as he squatted down between his task 
force leader and Bashir. He'd worn that panoply too long; he was glad to be free of it. In his belt he 
had his stars and blossoms and a hunting knife, single-edged with serrations on the curve from point 
to flat of blade. The only difference between a hunting knife and a combat knife was what you stuck 
it in. He laid the crossbow by his knee: "Expecting trouble, are we?" 

"Not unless you brought it with you," Crit said, his eye-whites red from sucking on the 
waterpipe, whose mouthpiece he held out. 

Thinking that he'd never be at ease socializing with his task force leader, Niko dragged deeply 
and sought to pass the mouthpiece on. This time Bashir spoke up: "Smoke on, we're well ahead of 
you." And as he did he thought that in this room where those he loved the best lay about, relaxing, 
he felt totally alone. The Stepsons stepping wide of him he'd half expected, tried to understand. But 
Bashir, too, was acting strange, and this was sudden. Bashir was not one to criticize or worry; Enlil 
granted the warriors he favored a calm heart and far-seeing eye. And Bashir knew Niko's skill with 
Death Touch and found objects; together in the old days they'd thought and fought their way out of 
many a tight spot against ridiculous odds. He coughed, then drank the wine his old friend proffered 
and put speculation by. It was his lot to be alone, he'd had omen after omen of it. 

When Straton and Tempus came in together, every man upon the floor sat up or raised his head 
or straightened shoulders, but the Riddler waved them back and put them at their ease. 

By then Niko's head was spinning and voices loud and colors brighter than they should have 
been and he found it difficult to speak. 

Tempus said, "I'm late. Your pardon, fighters. Sometimes it takes longer than expected to prove 
oneself a total fool," and sat where Bashir and Crit moved over to make room for him with Straton 
on his right. 

"Commander?" Critias asked his meaning. 

"Never mind. It doesn't matter." The Riddler's eyes were on him so that Niko shifted, pulling on 
his tunic. 

The pipe was passed and talk turned, as talk will, to women, and then to the girl Niko'd found 
north of the border, and Strat suggested that they go take a look at her: "You can't leave her in the 
mageguild forever, Stealth. They've few provisions for women there. We don't need to be beholden 
to those sorcerous ants. And, too, if you don't want her, you could give her to a friend" 

He thought he'd say no, decline, explain he had no interest beyond preventing an innocent's 
death. But somehow they all got up and staggered out of there, headed for the mageguild, Niko 
wondering if he were dreaming this: one didn't go reeling through hostile streets in the middle of the 
night carousing with one's commander and one's task force leader. Neither Critias nor Tempus 
were known as public revelers; having them on either side like drinking buddies of the rank and file 
was disconcerting; he couldn't decide whether it was for good or ill, whether he was being 


accorded some due privilege, or just there to ease Bashir. 

accorded some due privilege, or just there to ease Bashir. 

He never should have let himself indulge in drug and drink so carelessly; he concentrated on 
walking upright; when his eyes left his feet he saw the Tysian mageguild's colonnaded front. By then 
he was leaning on Straton's shoulder, and he could hear voices behind him: Bashir's, and Tempus', 
and Critias in occasional monosyllabic comment, all speaking Nisi low and fast, trouble riding 
whispered sibilances and urgency in their tenses and their tone. But the sense of their discussion was 
beyond his befuddled capacity to fathom and, next he knew, Straton was telling him: "That's it, 
Stealth, just one more flight." 

Then there were nightmarish halls thick with shadows and incense so sweet he gagged when he 
breathed. He'd never in his most tortured dreams thought to set foot inside a mageguild. To be there 
with the Riddler, who disdained all power arts including gods, of lateand with Bashir, who was 
on the other side from mages, and be there barely under his own power, leaning on Straton, most 
superstitious and cautious of all the Stepsons he must be dreaming: passed out safe in Brother's 
Bomba's, hearing their voices through his stupor, letting their presence spark the nature of his 
dream. 

But then Strat said, "There you go, Stealth," and, "Sit right there, don't move. We'll be back to 
get you," and all familiar voices ceased. 

He was propped against a wall, and his eyelids were weighted closed. He struggled to get them 
open and when he did he closed them straightaway against what he saw. 

He was in a long, narrow chamber with lofty ceiling and painted walls depicting ceremonies of 
adepts working classified acts of magic; at its end was a raised and shrouded dais with a shriveled 
mage upon its throne. 

The eyes he'd seen in that brief glimpse were cavernous and ancient; the head was barren of hair 
and the mouth pleated and open: the words that came out of it danced in fiery letters before Niko's 
eyes and then turned to ropes which bound themselves about his limbs. He had time to think it 
consummately sad that those he'd trusted most and loved the best had betrayed him. Then the 
invocation of the wizened creature took over his spirit and he could not think at all. 

* * * 

"I'm sorry," the archmage of Tyse said, shaking his bald and ancient head as he came out of a 
room only Straton had been allowed to enter, just long enough to seat Niko there. 

"You'd better be more than sorry," Critias warned, stopped still where he'd been pacing; "you'd 
better have a good idea about what we can do to help him. We didn't bring him here to" 

"That's enough, Critias." Tempus left Bashir's side, where he had been trying to ease a 
warrior-priest forced by circumstances and love to enter into the citadel of his soul's enemy: Bashir 
subvocalized a curse upon sorcerers and their kind, which made the aged little archmage cast a 
blazing look his way. "Venerable magician," Tempus began, trying his best not to let his own despite 
leak through, "there must be something we can do. We have no intention of giving up on 
Nikodemos." 

"You'd best do it quickly, then, my children." 

Bashir growled a wordless threat, and Tempus heard the rustle of his armor as he quit the wall 
and he and Crit conferred. Moving close to the archmage, Tempus lowered his voice: "There's no 
hope?" 


"Burn the witch, and you've her infernal lord to deal with. Let her go on feeding on that boy, and 
your problem will solve itself in a month or so. He'll expire. Rid of him, you'll be better off. He's a 
spy in Wizardwall's interest. Willing or not is hardly germane. Or slay him yourself; it's kinder and 
your sort is inured to murder, we've all seen." 

"Burn the witch, and you've her infernal lord to deal with. Let her go on feeding on that boy, and 
your problem will solve itself in a month or so. He'll expire. Rid of him, you'll be better off. He's a 
spy in Wizardwall's interest. Willing or not is hardly germane. Or slay him yourself; it's kinder and 
your sort is inured to murder, we've all seen." 

"You know that answer, soldier." The burning coals which served this wraithlike mage for eyes 
met Tempus' and held them. "You're older than I, Riddler. Why aren't you wiser? Haven't you 
learned yet that mortal-lovers consign themselves to recurrent, hopeless pain? Let him meet his fate 
and wreak your vengeance on the Osprey. Revenge, I know, you understand. Now, what about 
this waif, the girl we've been keeping for him?" 

"We'll take her and her child to Outbridge," Tempus heard himself growl, trying to keep his 
temper. His fingers itched and twitched to get themselves around that scrawny neck. 

The mage felt it. "Well, you asked for my opinion. You've had it. Let that one" A wavering, 
gnarled finger pointed to Straton. "go in and bring the accursed forth. We'd prefer not to be 
implicated; if he regains his senses, the witch will know he's been here. We've all our aggressors 
engaged" 

"You keep him there. Keep him safe. You can do that, magician?" Tempus smiled as he spoke 
but eyed the archmage bleakly. "We'll oust the witch and then come back." 

Straton's sigh of relief sounded in the antechamber fallen silent. 

"We've put one mage at risk for you, sleepless one" 

"Do this, or Bashir and I will take it ill." 

Crit muttered: "It's about time." 

Straton said: "Then I don't have to go back in there?" 

Bashir said: "Hark to him, old man. The Riddler speaks for me and the god speaks through me. 
You don't yet know the meaning of 'damned." Keep him, and keep him well, or all the devils you 
feed from that foul hand of yours won't save you." 

"Enough!" Tempus silenced them. "Archmage, yea or nay?" 

The ancient waved a hand and Straton flinched. "It falls within the bounds of our agreement, I 
suppose. But don't blame me if boy or girl or babe dies of this mortal foolishness. Now go! Get out! 
Your priest," he glared at Bashir, "disturbs our wards and right now you need them to protect this 
sold soul you think still yours. Go make fools of yourselves and fail as you must. Then we'll hear a 
different tone. But don't think to sacrifice my Hazard, young Randal whom I loaned you, for this 
soldier" 

Tempus got them out of there. The details of his bargain with the Tysian mageguild were nothing 
he wanted spelled out for Straton or Bashir. 

Crit took his arm when they'd made it down the steps and whispered: "Where were you, 
before? What did you mean about making a fool of your" 

"Niko's message, when I got it, suggested that I might call upon the dream lord for a certain kind 
of aid. I tried it. It didn't work. So perhaps it was a diversion prepared by Roxane. So I thought, at 
any rate, and half expected to find you all in pieces or ensorceled when I returned." 

"Ha! That day's still a long way off. What say we go rout this witch now?" 

"Nothing else for it," Tempus agreed and added, slowly: "We may be doing Niko more harm 
than good." 


"We must do something to let them know we won't give him up without a fight." 

"We must do something to let them know we won't give him up without a fight." 

Straton came up: "You'd better explain things to Bashir. Me, I don't care whose aid you've got 
or what you've paid, but if I listen to the warrior-priest much longer, telling me where and how long 
I'm going to burn for this, I'll trade my war-horses in for oxen and my weapons in for sheep." 

"Done. But one thing, Straton," Tempus told him; "you've got to go in first, walk up to Roxane's 
door, knock, and ask for Niko." 

"By Vashanka's third and ghostly ball, why?" 

"Strat!" Crit snapped. "We take orders, we don't" 

"He has a right to ask. Because that's Randal's signal to get out of there. Try to keep her talking 
long enough for him to slip by, out the door." 

"Randal?" 

"The dog, fool! He's the dog, remember? Black and large and" 

"Oh. That's different, then. Consider it done, Riddler." 

Straton had never, in Tempus' memory, called him that before. He fell into a discussion of 
strategy and tactics then with both Stepsons, forgetting Bashir until the warrior-priest joined them, 
saying that Niko was his bond brother and whatever could be done to save him, Bashir must help to 
do, mages or no mages: "Enlil will sanctify us, and his fire will purify those grounds as war without a 
god's clean flame could never do. Anyway," the priest grinned, "I do love roasting the occasional 
witch. And this time, it's in a cause that's more than just." The grin faded as he glanced back over 
his shoulder at the mageguild, and when he turned, his countenance was filled with unmitigated hate. 
"If I left Nikodemos in there, trusting you, the least I can do is hasten the moment we can get him 
out again." 

"He's never to know of this," Tempus warned. "Not that we know the witch is in him, even when 
it's over. I won't leave him there later than morning, Bashir. You and I have an aversion to these 
necromancers in common. Now, when we get him back, we'll admit to taking him there to claim the 
girl and her child, that's all. For the rest, he's had too much to smoke and too much to drink. And 
never, if we all get old together, are any of us to tell another person what we've learned. He has 
troubles enough without being outcast, shunned and suspect." 

"You said, "never."" Bashir remarked. "What if none of this avails us?" 

"Then we take him back among us, keep his secret, let him spend what time he has with those 
who love him best." 

"How?" Crit objected. "When everything he knows, she knows? And probably the Osprey, 
too?" 

"An information conduit flows both ways. We'll use him to affect old Datan's judgment; bad 
information, given as truth from an impeccable source, can hurt the wizard's planning." 

"In a fight?" Strat wondered. 

"Randal. He'll be a temporary Stepson; I'll assign him to Niko's right. It's up to you both," he 
looked at Critias and Straton, "to see that the squadron accepts him, and that no one knows what 
kind of fighter Randal really is." 

"No problem," Critias nodded, his intelligent stare letting Tempus know he'd made the leap to 


comprehension. With a source just like him Tempus could have scoured the known world clean of 
evil. 

comprehension. With a source just like him Tempus could have scoured the known world clean of 
evil. 

Tempus hoped he was right. 

* * * 

Critias sent Strat on ahead, almost too busy for misgivings. But he'd had to say, "Take care, 
Ace; don't tarry with her; remember how she nearly charmed me last time," and clap his friend upon 
the back, and even hand over his eagle-claw fish hook- for Strat to carry. "It will bring you luck." 

"Luck? Let's hope I don't need it." Strat was glum, but resigned. He stuffed the fish hook in his 
pouch and strode up the winding drive which led to Roxane's with only one puzzled, backward 
look. 

After he'd gone, Crit cursed himself for letting Strat know how worried he was. He should have 
kept silent. He remembered that night six weeks ago when he'd cast his personal prognosticators in 
Sanctuary's hostel, sitting in the common room after Tempus had saddled him with the welfare of all 
the Stepsons. 

He'd done well enough by the single fighters and the paired; all a man could do, he'd done in 
accordance with custom and regulation as well as in the spirit of the honor-bond that elevated 
Sacred Bands. Watching Straton walk, lightly armed and with that swinging gait of his, up to the 
vine-enshrouded house in the early hours of the morning, he knew he'd been fooling himself in 
thinking pairbond was a problem he no longer had. Undeclared or not, his nature had found its mate 
in Straton's; his heart went with his friend up to the witch's door. 

Men were sneaking round the sides and bush by bush up close with incendiaries hastily 
concocted from kitchen staples; when Bashir gave his jackal howl, they'd place them strategically 
around the old manse's foundations; by the time dawn dared to break the whole place would be in 
flames. He took an instant to thank the gods that Roxane had no high wall to be scaled. An arrogant 
witch, she shunned mundane defenses. He hoped she didn't know better than he, that what seemed 
an advantage to his side would turn out to really be one. 

Above the masking sound Peace River made rushing behind her house, he could hear Bashir's 
low baritone, intoning prayers and blessing commandos while overhead a godly cloud began to 
mass. 

Wishing he could see the door from where he crouched among the bushes, he crawled back to 
join the other Stepsons gathered to receive Enlil's blessing. It couldn't hurt. He bowed his head. 

Then a dog's bark, ending in a whine (low, then louder) broke his concentration and he almost 
sprinted up the drive. 

Bashir caught him by the arm, intervening: "It's in the god's hands." 

"Hug my crack. Every man's in his own hands, with a little help from his brothers. Let me go." 

"Wait and see." Bashir held on tight. 

"Too much rides on this." 

He couldn't argue with Bashir in front of Sacred Banders. He was glad the majority of them 
were deployed around the house. He'd have to talk to Tempus about which of them should 


command this task force when both had fighters in it: half the men behind the house were 
side-locked Nisibisi. For the moment, he merely wrenched his arm free and walked away without 
another word. 

command this task force when both had fighters in it: half the men behind the house were 
side-locked Nisibisi. For the moment, he merely wrenched his arm free and walked away without 
another word. 

"Randal? Get changed, I've got to know what happened. Where's Strat?" 

Then he heard Bashir give the jackal call, and Randal howled along with it in some eerie duet, 
and Critias had to get his bow and quarrels and form his men and call firstline codes for "ready." 

A fire Bashir had made with pungent charcoals that burned green was now uncovered; those 
with bows of Nisibisi style had wrapped their points in cloth soaked with Enlil's holy oil; those with 
crossbows didn't wait in line, but began scuttling through the undergrowth. 

When Crit looked away from the blacker shadow of the house against the purpling night, Randal 
was darkly clad and crouched beside him. 

"Strat?" Crit whispered. 

"I'm not sure. I'm sorry." Randal spread pale hands, then obeyed Grit's order and put on his 
gloves. 

"Come on, then, Stepson, let's go roast this witch-bitch." Strat, Crit thought, this one's for you, 
and disobeyed his own instructions to wait until the house erupted into flames to sneak up closer. 

But as he came within the house's shadow, charges flared and pieces of stone and wood and 
gouts of flame erupted; he covered his face with his arm as concussions reverberated around him, 
counting off the seconds between blasts, feeling the heat sear the hair on his arms and warm his 
helmet and sweat begin to run down his neck, along his backbone, as his battle-sharpened sense 
dilated moments. The charges should have gone off simultaneously; some men were better at this 
than others; he'd have to weed them out so that this sort of thing didn't happen again. A stone 
dwelling is hard to raze. 

He looked up before he should have, afraid the house would have its walls intact and they'd 
have to go in there fighting, room to room, with demons or undeads or whatever minions Roxane 
had. A soldier such as Critias avoided, when he could, such sorties round blind corners, in 
unfamiliar passageways where others of your team could accidently kill you; he hated close-in 
fighting, being penned by walls and prey to unexpected trap doors or floors and roofs which might 
give away 

And what he saw when he looked up was a roof and climbing vines and windows all ablaze and 
figures limned in firelight through burned-out doors and crashing timbers and then, from above, a 
lightning bolt zagged down from clouds and wrapped itself around the house entire, a blue and awful 
net of power. Stone by stone, the old manse came apart and showered men and trees and road 
with pebbles; chunks and even blocks like hell-sent hail came flying forth from the inferno, so bright 
his eyes teared and stung. 

Something hit his helm and he saw a tiny constellation of new stars all his own; then the ground 
came up to meet him, and he had all he could do to get up on his hands and knees, to shake away 
the dizziness, to rise and run... Into smoke thick and cloying and sweet with the tang of roasting 
meat he fought his way, hearing whoops and cries and warriors' curses, but seeing no one else, so 
much sulphurous smoke did the old manse belchor what was left of it. 

He'd reached what should have been its doorway, and there was nothing there but a fall of 
stones, some smoking timbers, an afterglow of whitehot nails and, he thought, something quivering 


among the billows of greasy vapors. He heard a voice beside him: "Don't go in there yet!" 

among the billows of greasy vapors. He heard a voice beside him: "Don't go in there yet!" 

He wheeled and took a shot, crossbow on his hip, firing blind, by instinct, and heard a far worse 
cry than what he'd just heard. Then Randal shouted "Aaiieee!" and something beat the air about his 
head with hellish wings so that Critias dove to ground, hot stones and nails and smoking earth 
beneath him; rolling over onto his back, he levered and nocked and fired arrows as fast and best he 
might. 

First crawling, then lunging through the ruins, he came upon what must once have been the 
house's kitchen, just as one Successor and a pair of Sacred Banders were scrambling in the other 
way. 

And there, coughing and choking in that steaming wreckage, he paused and waved the three 
back. On a drying rack, gleaming through the smoke, bright despite the greasy pall on everything 
about it, was Niko's panoplycuirass with raised enameled snakes and glyphs, the sword with 
demons from elder myths, the dirk with stormbolts and fabled beasts on its scabbard, hanging there 
from leather straps. 

He walked cautiously forward, feeling his way among the turning stones and charred boards 
beneath him, mindful that there might be a cellar under, and the whole floor give way to bury him 
below. "If I go down, don't try to get me out yourselves. Get Bashir and plenty of others." 

"Whatever you say," said the leftman and crossed his arms to wait and see. "We did it, looks 
like." 

"You saw a witch's corpse?" he asked absently, hooking his crossbow on his belt so that he'd 
have both hands free to grab for safety or keep his balance. 

"No, but I saw a form or two aflame in here, and nothing could have survived" 

"Strat? Did you see Strat?" He was almost there. 

"Straton? No. We thought he was with you." 

The Successor, crouching down, said a prayer of thanks in Nisi, picked up some pulverized 
debris and let it trickle slowly through his fingers, an oblation to the gods. 

Two good strides remained between Crit and the panoply. If this was some witch's trap, then he 
was about to fall into it. He gave up caution and strode the distance, his hands outstretched to grab 
the gear and flee. 

When he touched the breastplate, a cry escaped him. He felt his skin sear and pulled his hands 
away. He should have taken his own advice and put on gloves. He fumbled for them and, wincing, 
eased them over palms burned white, and was just reaching out again when Randal's call came: 

"Stop! I'll do that." 

The pain he was ignoring made Crit snap sharply: "You? Why not? It's something you can 
manage." Then he looked around. 

The little mage's face was scored with long, parallel cuts, as if his cheek were flayed or plowed. 
One eye was swollen shut and, as he walked, he staggered, mumbling charms or spells or simply 
cursing off his painCrit could make no sense of the dialect. 


But the mage came across the rubble and said, "Hold onto me." So Crit grasped Randal's belt 
and the junior Hazard lifted the cuirass gingerly from the rack, his good eye narrowed, talking to the 
piece of armor as he did: "There's a good thing. Niko wants you back. You've got to let me have 
you," and so forth as he did the same with sword and dirk, then held them out to Crit. 

But the mage came across the rubble and said, "Hold onto me." So Crit grasped Randal's belt 
and the junior Hazard lifted the cuirass gingerly from the rack, his good eye narrowed, talking to the 
piece of armor as he did: "There's a good thing. Niko wants you back. You've got to let me have 
you," and so forth as he did the same with sword and dirk, then held them out to Crit. 

He wanted to put his head between his hands, but they hurt too much. He bound his lacerated 
forearm and lay on his back, watching the smoke disperse and the red tinge of sunrise eat up the 
night, praying he wasn't going to cry for Straton, who deserved better than a death or undeath, 
alone, while trying to save a junior hazard who wasn't worth saving. 

Most of all, he didn't want to face the possibility that they might have a second Niko on their 
hands; there was not a single bone or corpse or even a piece of Straton's panoply visible in the 
kitchen; in fact, he hadn't seen a casualty anywhere within the chaotic ruin which once had been a 
house. The wreck-and-rescue crew would go over what remained, of course, as soon as they could 
be pulled away from their current labors at the palace, where they still searched desultorily for royal 
remains under collapsed tons of stone. 

But Straton Crit held the fish hook up before his eyes and it was blurry in his sight. 

One of the men approached, stood over him; the silhouette looked down; Crit started to get up. 

"You found it!" Straton said. "Gods' balls, I'm glad of that. 

"Strat, you bastard! Where were you?" Crit was on his feet, clasping Straton close. Then, 
embarrassed, he pulled away. "Can't you ever follow orders? I want a full report, right now." Crit 
crossed his arms. 

"Report? I don't know I knocked, she opened the door, I asked for Niko, she said he wasn't 
there, and that was that. No dog came out, though, so I asked her how it was doing, and she said it 
had gotten out earlier and was outside somewhere, maybe I'd look for it for her, so I had to look 
around then," Strut shrugged, "I was around the back and the call came so I took cover. That's 
all." 

"That's all? I thought you were dead. You were supposed to report back to me." 

"Crit, what's the matter?" 

"How did this get in her kitchen, then?" 

"I don't know. I dropped it, I told you." Straton stepped back a pace, uncertain, scrutinizing 
Critias. "I do believe," he said slowly, "that you were worried." 

"Just a little. Between Bashir and Randal and not knowing whether we won this one or lost it" 
He couldn't keep this up; there was no reason to suspect foul play or witchery just because Straton 
had dropped a fish hook, or to pretend he was angry when in fact he was tremendously relieved. 
He said as much, made amends in his own terse fashion, and went one step further, so that when 
they got down to overseeing the clean-up and regrouping, they did it as an acknowledged pair, full 
and sharing partners. 

* * * 


Tempus reclaimed Niko from the mageguild before the sun came up. He had never been far 
from him, choosing to stay close at hand in case the witch attacked Niko in the Tysian archmage's 
stronghold, as the old adept thought she might, rather than take part in the assault. If Critias and 
Bashir together couldn't raze the place, it couldn't be brought down. 

Tempus reclaimed Niko from the mageguild before the sun came up. He had never been far 
from him, choosing to stay close at hand in case the witch attacked Niko in the Tysian archmage's 
stronghold, as the old adept thought she might, rather than take part in the assault. If Critias and 
Bashir together couldn't raze the place, it couldn't be brought down. 

As Tempus had requested, Grillo had brought a wagon in which to carry Niko's girl and her 
newborn boy to the Outbridge estate; it was driven, as Tempus had specified, by the single survivor 
of the Outbridge's sack, the special into whose arms Tempus had collapsed that night, and his 
favorite among Grillo's men, one he'd had transferred to him. 

With the girl in safe hands and on her way, tended en route by the widow Maldives, to whose 
skill at healing Tempus could attest, he was free to turn his thoughts to other matters: the archmage 
of Tyse was unabashedly eager to be rid of Niko; Tempus almost pointed out that it could be said 
that his Stepson's troubles were of this mageguild's manufacture: if they were not so impertinent and 
vain, they might have contained this magewar long ago, before it overflowed into precincts where it 
didn't belong and embroiled human empires and secular alliesmages should war with mages, men 
with men. 

But he had said it all before in former times and other empires; he himself had become accursed 
because an archmage lusted after his sister, Cime. So it went: gods mixed in and sorcerers meddled, 
and puny mortals were the ones who suffered. 

Having taken his spellbound, semiconscious Stepson from the mageguild amid the solicitous 
stares and lugubrious looks of portentous, self-important wizards gathered to gawk and 
prognosticate and teach their apprentices and impress each other as he half-carried, half-dragged 
Niko through the halls, he boosted the boy up on his horse and headed them west, sunrise at their 
backs: Niko's head would clear now that the sleeping draught and hypnotic spells they'd slipped him 
were wearing off. 

The sky was dark overhead and red along the horizon; he was late; all this had taken much too 
long. He had hoped to have the Stepson safe and sound at Outbridge before the task force razed 
the witch's keep. 

As it was, he had to hurry; he didn't need Niko looking back toward Peace River and the 
witch's house and seeing smoke and flame; he hadn't yet decided what he was going to tell the 
youth who wavered in his saddle but followed him without complaint. The archmage had made sure 
Niko would remember only meeting with his girl there; the spell was truly cast, for Niko asked him 
thickly if Tempus were sure it was all right: "billeting her out at the barracks, I mean?" Then: 
"Commander, did you see that?" 

He'd seen. To the west, above a brightening horizon, shooting stars came arcing down from 
heaven, a shower of green-tailed arrows from the bows of the gods. 

"Make a wish, Stepson," he advised the youth, and they rode awhile in silence as darkness 
waned, and sunrise sought to defeat a mass of roiling clouds. 

They'd stopped to relieve themselves before he broached it: "Niko, you'll be billeted at 
Outbridge yourself from this day on. We're moving north in a week or two." 

The youngster turned around to face him, arranging himself within his loinguard. unspoken 
questions in his shadowed, deep-sunk eyes. Tempus saw those questions fade and Niko's 
customary control take over, and recalled when the boy's facade had been uncracked, when 
equanimity had seemed as much a part of Nikodemos as breathing, and realized fully how much it 
bothered him that this particular fighter suffered in his stead. 


"Niko, I'm going to tell you something else. We sacked that Peace River house of yours this 
morning." 

"Niko, I'm going to tell you something else. We sacked that Peace River house of yours this 
morning." 

But Tempus volunteered: "Death squad leaders and a number of insurgents have been seen 
meeting there. It was the only decision we could take." 

"You are sure, of course. I'm sorry you thought that I couldn't be trusted to know beforehand, 
but it's not surprising." Niko's glance was level, his hazel eyes blank and cold. "Everyone's been 
avoiding me as if I had the plague. If that stops, now, it's almost worth it." He looked away: 
"Cybele it's hard to believe she was just a child. I hope this doesn't mean you'll never trust me, 
henceforth, commander. I'm" He fell silent, went to his horse and vaulted up on it, then sat 
stroking its neck, his shoulders slumped, his grief for a girl he yet thought might be an innocent 
barely checked. 

Tempus mounted up and kicked the roan; he drew alongside. 

"No chance that she'll survive and end up in Straton's hands?" 

"None whatsoever," Tempus assured him and heard Niko's sigh of relief. "I have another piece 
of news; in the assault of Wizardwall, if you'll take a man I choose as your right-side partner for the 
action, I'll let you have the point." 

"The point? I'd endure Haram's company for that chance, sir." 

So much, then, for the youth's fears of being considered untrustworthy. But he had to chuckle. 
"It's not that badit's not Haram. But it may seem oddyour rightman will be Randal, the junior 
Hazard. I believe you've met." 

Whatever Niko would have said beyond repeating "Randal?" was lost, because the boy could 
see past him. "Commander, you're not expecting an escort, are you? One rider, one extra horse?" 

Tempus turned in his saddle. The rider came cross-country, from the direction in which lay 
Outbridge, and where the shooting stars had seemed to fall. 

Niko was levering his crossbow; Tempus saw, out of the corner of his eye, the boy's hand go to 
his hip where the sword he had been given by Akelon should have been, heard him curse, 
remembering where he'd left it, then spoke up, telling Niko to wait right there, and spurred the roan 
out to meet the silhouetted rider who was plainly bent on interception. 

As he closed at a moderate lope, the dark rider got no lighter; it was helmed, and that helmet 
had a flowing pair of horse-tail crests like hair streaming down its back. Its mount and the riderless 
horse it led were sable, like its mail and arms. Soon he could see that its helmet had a full visor 
drawn down; below, a pale jaw showed between cheek pieces. 

He reined in his own horse, told it "Stand," and waited. Other than the pale triangle of mouth, no 
light patch showed on rider or either horse, and both of these were Trs-large, with arching crests 
and barrel chests and hooves that thundered when they touched the ground. 

Horses worth a fight, worth slaying for, was his first thought as the rider slowed them to a walk 
and raised one gloved hand in casual greeting. 

A few lengths away, he still had not placed the armor style or the point of origin of tack or 
horses. They were of no breed he had ever seen before, with dished faces, tiny wide-set ears, and 


as great a breadth between their eyes proportionately as had their mighty chests. The armor seemed 
to be a sort of tiny-scaled corselet; no smith Tempus had knowledge of could work in such 
diminutive fashion. In truth, when the horses danced up close as if they were on springs, he saw that 
the rider was quite small as well. 

as great a breadth between their eyes proportionately as had their mighty chests. The armor seemed 
to be a sort of tiny-scaled corselet; no smith Tempus had knowledge of could work in such 
diminutive fashion. In truth, when the horses danced up close as if they were on springs, he saw that 
the rider was quite small as well. 

"Cime!" 

"Greetings, brother. You called?" 

"I received a message that if I wished" 

"That's your Nikodemos, there, who has his crossbow trained on me? I'd tell him to put it by, 
were I you." She took her helmet off and hung it on her saddle. 

Still stunned by the proximity of his sister, he turned and waved a signal; Niko was to put his 
weapon down and ride up. Then he faced her: "What took so long, sister?" 

"I might ask that of you." She smiled, gray eyes like smoke lying lightly on him, yet he saw that 
they were puffy and red-rimmed, as if she'd been weeping long and hard. "We tried to reach you," 
she said; "used that boy. How is he?" 

"You tell me." 

She looked past him and on impulse he fumbled in his pouch and came up with a Rankan gold 
Imperial. When she turned back to him, he held it out as so long ago he had seen the dream lord 
do. 

Her eyebrow raised. Her hand stretched out. She had to take it. She'd have to stay, now, until 
she'd given service. He could hold her thus as long as he could fend her off and not succumb to the 
urge, rising in him even now, which had started all their troubles centuries ago. 

Then she answered the question he'd forgotten that he'd asked: "You've hurt Nikodemos more 
than helped him, brother. As usual, you rush in where you don't belong. The witch yet lives; his 
soul's all tangled up. You should have waited for me. I could have freed him with a wave of hand." 
She smiled at him pityingly. "But we'll save him, if it can still be done. Akelon craves him as a 
mortal instrument, if you have not already guessed." 

He'd thought as much, but discounted it as wishful thinking. "Then why let him suffer so?" 

"We don't own him; he's human. He has free choice. He has his fate. And he's not ready to 
make a pact with even the most benign of powers. Now hush, he comes." 

"Not quite yet. Why are you here?" 

"To fight beside you, weakling brother. I've a dispensation from Akelon himself. It's clear you'll 
never triumph on your own. But there are forms to be observed. We could not interpose ourselves 
without your invitation. Quite frankly, I was bored to tears with him; there's naught to do there." 

"We have a clutch of mages sore in need of killing." 

And Cime took her wands out and shook her hair down so that it floated, black and silver, in an 
errant breeze. The wands refracted sunlight like a pair of prisms, and all around them rainbows 
shivered into being. She sighed; she pocketed the coin he'd give her, which would bind her to him. 
She said, "I was beginning to fear you'd never ask. There's no shame in humbling oneself before 
such a lord as Akelon Ah, Niko-demos, I believe we've met before." 

She held out a delicate hand and Niko leaned forward on his horse to take it, then brushed it 
with his lips, one eye on Tempus, his expression guarded. "That's right," he said. "At the Vulgar 


Unicorn, it was." 

Unicorn, it was." 

"We?" It was to Tempus Niko looked, his lips drawn tight. Tempus snatched his neck and said 
uncomfortably, "My sister hobnobs with the plane lord." 

"That's right," she said. "And he's sent you a token of remembrance and esteem, Nikodemos. 
Use it well and remember where you got it." From her saddle she unwound the second sable 
horse's tether and held it out. 

Niko's bay backed three paces quickly; the fighter said, "I can't take that him"he 
squinted at the magnificent horse trapped in exotic leathers"from you. I hardly know you; I can't. 
My allegiance is already given. Commander, maybe you'll explain?" 

Tempus was at a loss for words; jealousy was an emotion he seldom had to deal with; he didn't 
know what to say. 

But the sable horse raised up its head and curled its lips back and gave an ear-splitting callhalf 
challenge, half welcomeso that Niko's bay gelding lowered its head and shivered. 

"You take it, sir," Niko whispered. "It's for you," Cime chuckled throatily. "Every time we meet, 
Nikodemos, I get the distinct impression you are afraid of me. Now take this horse; it's bad 
manners to refuse a gift from an entelechy; few men have the honor to receive one." She dropped its 
tether and the sable horse, his head high, minced over beside the cowering bay gelding and butted 
Niko with a fine, intelligent head. Niko looked at it askance, then with an uncertain, soft laugh and 
one last glance at Tempus, stroked its muzzle. The big stallion closed its eyes and stuck out its 
tongue. 

Cime laughed again: "Don't look so crestfallen, brother. This one's for you; I've no need of this 
much help. We wish to make amends for the discomfort that we've caused you both, and the loss of 
the Trs horses" 

"Loss?" 

"Temporary, brother, temporary. Now, swap mounts with me and we'll talk about setting things 
aright while we ride out to your barracksyou will make accommodations for me?" 

Dismounting with unconcealed eagerness, he knew he was accepting her too soon, without 
enough close questioning or making it clear to her that he wasn't about to get involved with her so 
deeply that he might not ever extricate himself or even have the sense to know he should Then he 
thought about the heinous bargain he'd made with the Tysian mageguild, and Niko's ensorcelment, 
and all the trials before them on their way up Wizardwall, and he too laughed: "My pleasure, sister. 
But you'll keep your place: not whore among my men or slay wantonly while among them. Not men 
or mages," he added, recalling Randal while he ran his hand down the sable mare's flank and Cime 
slipped a leg over to dismount. 

As she slid down, he caught her in his arms. 

"A welcome kiss, brother? Or has the Froth Daughter completely turned your head?" 

He knew he shouldn't; he felt the Stepson watching; but his lips met hers and sibling 
considerations were no part of the welcome that she gave him. 

He had to remind himself that the chances were good that they had no blood relationship, then 
force himself to disengage. 

"So, my dear and most faithful lover, you do remember me." 

Riding into the Outbridge station on the big sable mare bred on the archipelago of dreams with 


Cime beside him and Niko bringing up the rear, he wished he didn't remember quite so well all the 
harm and anguish she had caused him over so many years. But he was so deep into unsavory pacts 
with agents of sorcery and magic that a mage-killer like Cime might be exactly what he needed. He 
hoped so. She usually created repercussions worse than the problems she solved. He wondered if 
the dream lord had found this out, and was glad to foist her off on him. But she wouldn't answer 
questions of that nature. 

Cime beside him and Niko bringing up the rear, he wished he didn't remember quite so well all the 
harm and anguish she had caused him over so many years. But he was so deep into unsavory pacts 
with agents of sorcery and magic that a mage-killer like Cime might be exactly what he needed. He 
hoped so. She usually created repercussions worse than the problems she solved. He wondered if 
the dream lord had found this out, and was glad to foist her off on him. But she wouldn't answer 
questions of that nature. 

Cime demanded to see Grit's forearm, and when he had unwound the bandage and she'd 
fingered the dry, seared cuts, she said: "No doubt of it. The witch escaped." 

"Who's this?" Critias had whispered to Niko when the four were first ushered into Tempus's 
quarters where they expected to report. "His sister," Niko had whispered back, and turned away to 
answer Straton's questions about the two new horses drawing an admiring crowd outside, then 
offered to take Strat out right then, and let him try Niko's. 

Since then, Critias had watched and waited without a word, his demeanor saying he wasn't 
about to speak freely with a womanany womanthere. 

Yet when she touched first his palm and then his arm with the butts of the diamond rods taken 
down from her hair, he covered her fingers with his own: "That's much better; it feels fine now. 
Thank you." His voice was very soft. 

She said: "Cime. My name is Cime." 

"I'm Critias, Tempus's second in command. And this is Straton, my right-side partner." 

"Sacred Banders, are you?" Still her hand rested under his. 

Tempus hadn't heard the rest; Bashir had pulled him off to one side to confirm what the priest 
suspected: that this was the famed and deadly sorcerer-slayer of legend. "What about Randal? 
Even for you, Riddler, this is a dangerous, convoluted game." 

"The way up and down is one and the same." 

"Meaning it is worth the risk?" 

"Meaning if it weren't, we'd still have to accommodate her. Don't you have relatives, Bashir?" 

"It seems to me she's going to be accommodating Critias." 

"Did you see the horse she brought for Niko?" 

"And one for you. Let's hope you don't need them to trek to hell together." 

"With you here to watch over all our souls? Come, Bashir; let us see whether a priest of Enlil 
can drink an old soldier under the table." 

And they left, with Randal trailing after, his eyes wide and his witch-scored face pale and 
wonder in his voice: "She says she's here to help us, Ridcommander. And she wants to confer, 
alone, with me?" 

"Keep your belt tight, mageling, and you should survive it." 

Already, she'd brought more troubles than he thought he could handle. But Bashir was as 
anxious as he to start the ascent to the high peaks keeps; after that, he wouldn't need her. 

Niko had his cuirass back, if not his soul, and the sorrow in the Stepson's eyes was partly eased 
by the magnificent gift Akelon had sent him; they'd not lost a single man to Roxane during the 
attack on the Peace River house; Bashir was committed and even Grillo seemed to be keeping his 


place. Whatever doubts the ranks had had were assuaged by the luminaries convening for this 
mission. 

place. Whatever doubts the ranks had had were assuaged by the luminaries convening for this 
mission. 

Every one of them was spoiling for a fight, and Tempus knew one thing for certain: they were 
going to join the battle of their lives, sweat the blood of legends, and perform feats of valor the like 
of which they'd never know again. 

Book Five: 
UP WIZARDWALL 


Around Wizardwall the wards snapped tight and rockfalls glowed bright blue. Nothing over fifty 
pounds in weight could pass through unnoticed or unscathed or by dint of force alone: the perimeter 
wards turned unwary insects into exploding fireflies, roasted rabbits in an instant, charred birds' 
feathers as they hit the high-strung fence of power wound about the citadel like ritual wool. 

And down from the high peaks winter blew, and wizard weather vanquished summer: not one of 
the adepts gathered on the heights expected an easy rout, but all agreed a verdant carpet of 
flowered earth was not a proper welcome for the Riddler, his murderous sister Cime, Bashir of 
Free Nisibis who brought Enlil into the war, and Grille, representative of Ranke under whose aegis 
even the Tysian mageguild had sent a young adept along to fight. 

Nisibisi warlocks had never been so busy; already they were engaging the Machadi enemy side 
by side with Mygdon as the Mygdonian Alliance's most fearful weapon. Most of the blood-hungry 
and the high-spirited warlocks had joined Lacan Ajami's rear echelon retinue; whose remaining up 
on Wizardwall didn't dirty their hands with mortals or mix among the puny or the damned. A wealth 
of tender spirits and newly unconsecrated dead were delivered up to them by the lesser mages; the 
greater burped and lazed and fed, not really troubled by the distant, raging war or even sixty-six 
guerilla fighters climbing up with dogged determination to bring the war to them. 

To teach Tyse a lesson long past due, blizzard weather was sent down. After camouflaging the 
high peaks routes and filling crevasses with treacherous drifts of white, it rolled on down the 
mountainsides, dispatching the summer with its blighting breath that bit off limbs and whispered 
harshly in reddened ears of famine soon to come. 

Exploratory lighting bolts had been parried by Tyse's overweening mageguild; fair warning was 
ignored. Mere Hazards were not up to battling weather. Terror waxed among the townsfolk as their 
treasured prestidigitators bowed their heads and warmed their hands over sputtering hearths and 
tried in vain to call the banished summer back. 

Priests pontificated over pious congregations larger than they had ever been before; armies 
drilled through slushy streets, a show of pretended force; mothers wrapped coughing children close 


and bought draughts that didn't cure them from overworked physicians; coins changed hands on 
Commerce Avenue for forecasts of fate and weather meant to make the frightened brave; whores 
warmed the bellies of unending clients who had fields full of frozen cattle to forget; girls wrapped in 
skins queued up before the mageguild to buy prophylactic spells and aborting preparations, but 
those who'd gone through times like these before just accepted that a baby boom was on the way. 

and bought draughts that didn't cure them from overworked physicians; coins changed hands on 
Commerce Avenue for forecasts of fate and weather meant to make the frightened brave; whores 
warmed the bellies of unending clients who had fields full of frozen cattle to forget; girls wrapped in 
skins queued up before the mageguild to buy prophylactic spells and aborting preparations, but 
those who'd gone through times like these before just accepted that a baby boom was on the way. 

And high above the town the archmage Datan, in his preoccupation with the Froth Daughter 
snoring in his seraglio, could not be shaken to his senses or even spoken with, most days. 

Since Roxane had flown up to heal her wounds and gird for battle, she'd hardly seen him. And 
when, chancing upon him in onyx, private halls, she'd tried to apprise him of his peril, he'd called her 
"stupid, short-sighted, and inept." 

She'd left him with his belly shaking as he laughed at her and all his chins aquiver, certain then 
that she'd been right to deem him due for toppling. When this war was over, all of Wizardwall and 
the northern range would be hers, and hers alone. 

Thus she didn't have to explain her own behavior; not how the snakes had died (though she'd 
been ready to blame it on the surprise attack by Stepsons) or even why they'd caught her unawares. 
She didn't have to justify the fact that she'd spared the young fighter Nikodemos for more spying 
despite the dream lord's cuirass or His alleged interest in the youth. 

So she rehearsed the moment when she'd triumph and planned the fates she'd mete out to 
enchanters, high and low, to Enlil's priest and to the Riddler and his rightly-accursed sister, whom 
Roxane had hated at first sight in Sanctuary when One-Thumb introduced them. 

As the Stepsons and Successors and specials of the army trudged on through snow and sleet 
she found those witches and warlocks she wanted for her faction, and prepared the oaths of fealty 
they must swear to earn salvation. 

She was meeting with a chosen few when Datan called her to war council; the enemy had 
passed through the warding spells unharmed. It was Bashir, Enlil's foul priest, who'd facilitated this 
with sacreligious prayers sent on high, when from Wizardwall all worship was directed downward. 
Certain demons were incensed. The priest, it was decided, would be first to die. 

* * * 

The snow was deep, the shadows purple. Above them, as night fell, it seemed a man could 
touch the stars if only he reached out with lance or sword. Tempus had split the force once Bashir 
was sure that sorcerous ramparts were well and truly breached: Niko had already taken his mixed 
group of Stepsons and Successors northeast; Grille would have the western face to scale with 
Sacred Banders and his specials; Critias and Straton were to drift off in the morning with five pairs 
they had chosen for surreptitious entry and undisclosed diversionary action; Cime and he would stay 
with the main contingent and Bashir. 

There had been some little wrangling. Critias had wanted Niko in his squadron: they were off to 
do what Niko liked and did the best. But Tempus had prevailed, citing Randal's presence as one 
reason to count against it. The witch's oversight through Niko's eyes he didn't mention until Critias 


and he had crunched knee-deep in snow to a spot near the horse lines where Tempus could be 
certain they were quite alone: "I want her thinking he is the main threat, that where Niko goes and 
what he penetrates should be the wizards' primary concern." He'd sent Niko's team off first, then 
given out further orders. The young Stepson thought the balance of the incursion force would follow 
close behind his advance, that he and Randal were the shock troop leaders on which all else 
depended. 

and he had crunched knee-deep in snow to a spot near the horse lines where Tempus could be 
certain they were quite alone: "I want her thinking he is the main threat, that where Niko goes and 
what he penetrates should be the wizards' primary concern." He'd sent Niko's team off first, then 
given out further orders. The young Stepson thought the balance of the incursion force would follow 
close behind his advance, that he and Randal were the shock troop leaders on which all else 
depended. 

"By standards such as you or I employ, we've already lost him. He's got the mage close on his 
right; if he comes through this, it will be a combination of his luck and Randal's skill, not anything 
more or less, that saves him. He's got a witch upon his back, her collar round his neck." To no one 
else would Tempus have explained himself at length. But Grit's usefulness was enhanced the more 
he knew; he saw and understood too much to be kept ignorant, allowed to draw his own 
conclusions, which might be wrong. "And Cime's been over all possible contingencies with Randal. 
You've seen for yourself that my sister is unparalleled at strategy with men." 

Crit looked at him sidelong: "Have you objections to my spending time with her? She's your 
sister, after all perhaps I should have asked. I'm not serious, not in lovejust" He stopped 
and frowned: "That's not how I meant to say this I mean, it's a war, commander. Men bunk in 
where and how they can." 

Tempus chuckled at his task force leader's discomfort: Critias was seldom at a loss for words; 
Tempus couldn't remember him ever being obviously nonplussed. "As long as you're paying her 
what she asks, it's not my business" 

"You know about that?" 

"Would that I did not." 

"So? It's all right, then? You've no objections?" 

"Would it matter if I did? No, I'm sorry, Crit. It's hardly a case where you need to ask or I want 
to give permission. She's ten times your age, you know, surely old enough to choose her bedmates 
on her own. I'm not her father, nor will I give my blessing to any union she makes for the occasional 
coin She has a long, infernal history of which, if you're smart, you'll stay in blessed ignorance." He 
knew he had been too sharp, that Crit might misunderstand, and uneasiness between them was one 
thing he could not afford. Yet he didn't like her bedding his best officer, the one man on whom he 
must be able to depend. Twice in the same evening, he found himself wishing Critias were a trifle 
less perceptive. 

"Listen, Fox," Tempus used Grit's war name; the sound of it brought his second in command up 
short. "She's my sister but she's not" He couldn't explain it. He said instead: "Be careful of her, 
she's not a belly-warmer. And she belongs to Akelon, lord of dreams, not to men. It's sport for 
her, and if it's sport for you, that's fine. But I need your head, unturned, and your eyes full sharp, 
and your mind on business. I can't have you leading men into battle half asleep." 

That lightened the mood, and Crit's cynical grin flashed white as the snow about. The moon was 
rising, gibbous and bright. "Now you sound like Straton. I promise I'll pace myself. It's not a full 
time occupation of mine, pleasing women. I've a right-side partner now, you know" 

And on firmer ground they left the subject, talking of the Successors' trick of pushing off from 
crags, their body-weight guiding silken-strutted winglike kites, and whether they could use it; and 
checking mules and asses among the horses on the lines, and trying to evaluate without prejudice 
Grillo's men and Grillo's motivesa difficult task when both wondered where the Rankan really 
stood to profit most, for that was where Grillo's interest always lay. Neither had expected him to 
volunteer to make the trip. Critias was just venturing that it must be because of Bashir when a 


commotion among the low, black goatshair tents sent them at full tilt, running in wide-paced strides 
through the snowdrifts. 

commotion among the low, black goatshair tents sent them at full tilt, running in wide-paced strides 
through the snowdrifts. 

"What's happening here? Who's in there?" Crit collared a Nisibisi fighter with arrow nocked and 
pulled him off his knees. 

"Let me go! My lord's in there and Grille, too and something something else!" 

"You can't shoot what you can't see, man. Come on." And Crit was running, pointing and yelling 
names and codes and gathering a group to lift the tent, another with ready arms, spear and bow and 
sword, to slay whatever was growling and howling under it when they got the cover off. 

As ten men moved in to lift the tent, a wind began to gust. Snow rose up in blinding eddies off 
the ground and clouds attacked the moon. An unearthly whine came from the wind that blew the 
snow into their eyes and men snapped down their visors or held up arms to keep their lashes from 
freezing as they blinked and cursed, but Critias and Tempus, with his own sword drawn, wouldn't 
let them back away. 

When they'd gotten it halfway up, the torches and intervals around all guttered, but Tempus had 
seen something furred and feral, a glimpse of glowing greenish eyes, and dived under, into the tent's 
confines. 

"Bashir? Grille?" 

"Aye, my brother. I'm still here," Bashir replied, but faintly. 

"Tempus? What took so long?" Grillo sounded stronger, closer. "You feel anything. See 
anything? Let's not hack each other to bits in here, my friends. All hold!" 

And, pausing, his sword fouled in something:tent or beast, he couldn't sayTempus listened. 
He strained his ears. He waited for jaws to close on him. He heard Grille's breathing on his left, and 
Bashir's, too ragged, somewhat farther away. "I think you're right, Grillo; it's gone, whatever it 
wasor wasn't. Let's help them lift this up." 

Grillo answered; Bashir did not. 

And when, with much straining and pulling and pushing from within, they got the tent (which like 
a great bat with a will of its own seemed to want to smother them) pulled up and cast aside, and 
someone brought a torch Tempus hardly needed in the light from a moon come clear in a starry 
night with no traces of wind or snow to mar it, all could see the black blood running from Bashir's 
gut around the hand he held to his groin. 

He was curled up, and Tempus called: "Get Cime," refusing to let Successors, pushing back the 
others to get close to their wounded leader, move him. 

Bashir's eyes were open wide, and Tempus could see the shock in them. If he started flailing, he 
would surely die. So Tempus sat down in the snow and talked quietly but insistently to the 
warrior-priest, who had bubbles at the comers of his mouth, about what had happened and 
demanded a description of the attacker. 

Bashir was trying to get his words out clearly, willing himself to ignore the pain. Men crouched 
silent, close, and bit their lips; from farther back, Tempus could hear curses and prayers begin to 
sound. 

"Make way, here. Let us through. Move, hillman!" It was Stratons' voice. Then Tempus heard 
Critias, talking fast and low to Cime about getting her anything she needed and what it was going to 


mean to the endeavor if Bashir died now and his men, a superstitious lot, deserted, leaving them not 
much better than lost among the crags covered with snow. 

mean to the endeavor if Bashir died now and his men, a superstitious lot, deserted, leaving them not 
much better than lost among the crags covered with snow. 

Then his sister was beside him; Bashir's grip tightened on his hand. The priest shook his head; 
no, he didn't want that kind of help. But he hadn't spoken aloud and Tempus leaned down, 
whispering, "This is no time for scruples, fighter. Unless you're a coward and seek an easy death." 

That put life into Bashir's brown eyes, and Cime bent over him, diamond rods aglow. 

As she worked, Bashir, against his will, gave one soft cry and sucked in breath; when she 
straightened up, she ran one bloody hand through her hair and said, "I cannot say for sure if this 
avails him." Then, louder: "Successors! That blood wine of yours is what he needs right now. All 
you've got, and hurry! Get it!" 

"Straton!" she continued. "He needs a litter, a dry, warm tentmine will do. Lots of furs, 
painkillers; get all the drugs together and someone to tell me about each one you've got. And start 
some soupwe need clear broth." 

"Soup? Woman, with a wound like that? You'll kill him," Grille objected. 

Tempus was about to intervene; with all Bashir's Successors listening, the last thing he needed 
was dissension, open questioning of Cime's healing skills. 

But she said: "The wound is closed. It's the blood he's lost which concerns me. And the pain 
he's in. Now, get back. Where's Straton? Brother, move these men and speed this up. He'll be on 
his way to Enlil's hands if he lies much longer in this snow." 

When she'd used that same snow to wash away his blood from the angry, closing wound, she 
called her brother close: "Put your hand right here, and keep it there." 

"I thought you said it's healed?" 

"In deep, it is. We've got to squeeze the fluids up and out; if it were to heal over poison, or his 
own wastes, we'd lose him. Just hold it closed and don't ask questions." He did as he was told, 
noticing that Bashir had quite passed out. 

Later, within her tent, they traded guesses as to what had made the wound and whether Bashir 
would have to be left behind. 

"One place is as bad as another. The trip up won't kill him more surely than the trip down. 
Leave him? And if it attacks again? We've got to take him, brother. The god loves him; if it's Enlil's 
will, he'll mend." 

Grillo sneered that gods had nothing to do with this, that it was a werewolf, probably planted 
among the men. 

"Oh yes? That's your guess? Then go out and find him, Rankan. Use this." From her belt Cime 
pulled a little dart, silvery and very thin at its tip. 

Once the flap had closed behind Grillo, her mocking laugh rang out. "I keep wondering when 
those fools will grow up, but the answer is that they will not." 

"There's no werewolf, then?" Straton asked. 

"Not unless it's you, Stepson. Or Critias. I keep those stickers to pick my teeth." 

Straton shuddered, made a face, and scrambled up to see if the broth was ready. 

That left just Critias, Tempus, and Cime, her cheeks smeared with blood like rouge, a lock of 
hair hanging down before her eyes. She pursed her lips and blew it back: "Well, beloved sirs, what 


think you? His color's better." 

think you? His color's better." 

"I'll tell them," Crit said wryly and slipped away, touching Cime's neck as he passed by: "You 
can heal me any time." 

"Now, brother, don't say anything," she warned when Crit was gone. 

"I was going to remind you that I have first claim on your services," he replied. 

"Which ones?" she rejoined wickedly, but as she did, Bashir groaned and tried to rise up on his 
elbows, then thrashed as some men will in delayed shock, and they had their hands full trying to 
hold him still. 

* * * 

Three days after being bitten by a hell-spawned demon, Enlil's priest still lived. This troubled 
Datan greatly; watching Jinan sleep in his seraglio, his massive head propped upon one fist, his other 
hand on the tow-headed boy who cuddled by his knee, he brooded. The poison in Bashir's wound 
had failed to do its work; the priest had too much aid from higher realms: his own pious soul, the 
god Himself, and Akelon's mage-destroying bitch, sicced on Datan straight from the archipelago of 
dreams. 

The improbable was fast becoming likelihood, the unthinkable now had to be considered: he 
was about to find his fortress under siege. Every adept and lesser mage and first-class sorcerer and 
warlock who'd lounged about under Datan's wards for eons knew it. Some were packing up 
belongings; some were making safety vaults secure; some struck further bargains with the loan 
officers of hell to whom they'd one day be consigned; some even came to him with urgent pleas to 
underwrite a slim chance of Wizardwall's survival by surrendering up the boy and Jihan to these 
grim soldiers of the gods who ignored their mortal fears and smiled in death's foul face. 

But these forgot that death, to god-fearing armies, was but a well-earned rest, an end to a life as 
full of terrors as death was to those who'd forfeited eternal peace and given up their souls. The 
Riddler's troops sought only death with honor, their places in the finest afterlife a man could claim 
were well assured. And so the fear Datan had once thought to strike into hardened commando 
hearts had boomeranged, come back upon his subjects like a flying wing to demoralize the high 
peaks' lords with doubts. Only Roxane and a handful of her cronies huddled hatching 
counterschemes, and those might do more harm than good. 

He'd thought long on the fate of Jihan, and his feeling was that the risk he took by keeping her 
asleep, unwitting hostage, in order to forefend her father's mixing in, was well worth taking. 
Otherwise, if he'd sent her with the boy as once he'd thought to do, Stormbringer might be tempted 
to join the fray. And that chance, Datan couldn't take. 

It was ironic that the superstitious fear he'd thought to foster in the hard young men who braved 
his spells and curses had come back to settle at his own hearth. But he'd not lived so long or gained 
so much to lose it to a motley crew of mercenaries led by a pair of accursed siblings and an 
all-too-human priest. 

He was glad now that he'd kept the boy; he saw a different kind of salvation in those wide-set, 
worshipful eyes. He tousled the flaxen hair beneath his hand and told the boy, "Rise up. Quietly 
now, we mustn't wake her." To hold Jihan thus, he needed to let her wake awhile every day or so, 
and then Shamshi was necessary to make fast the illusion Datan fostered in her that both the Froth 
Daughter and the prince of Mygdon were still resting up to leavethat only days, not weeks, had 


passed since they'd come into his care. And when she woke he wooed her, and put into her 
impressionable head resentment toward the Riddler. 

passed since they'd come into his care. And when she woke he wooed her, and put into her 
impressionable head resentment toward the Riddler. 

"Where now, father?" young Shamshi asked, once they'd left the sleeping Jihan and were out 
among the wenches of the seraglio and, behind, the wall of stone which came and went at Datan's 
bidding entombed her once again, its faceless, unmarked expanse giving no hint that Froth Daughter 
or room of summoning or anything at all but solid rock was there. 

"We'll have a bit of sport with some of these," his father said, indicating the herd of fawning 
women, "then go seek out our friend Roxane. AH adepts must help one another now that our hour 
of crisis has begun." 

He saw young Shamshi's eyes go wide with wonder and excitement mixed in just the right 
proportion. 

And he smiled down at his son. He might win this yet, on the larger scale eternals used to weigh 
their work. Let Enlil melt his snow and dissolve his demons and fend off his fiends, it didn't matter. 
All that mattered was the outcomejust survival, and the leave of those he served to "live" to fight 
again. 

* * * 

Crit could see the peak now, the ramparts black and craggy as if just natural rock scratched at 
the dusky sky. "See? There?" 

Straton blinked and rubbed his eyes and cursed the blurriness through which he saw the world: 
"If you say it's there, I'll take your word, Crit, but it's just rocks to me." 

Twisting in his saddle, Crit said to Cime, "Strat's vision, my lady. I'd take it as a favor if you 
could do anything for him." 

Her tinkling laugh was gentle: "One victory at a time. Stepson. Now, let's firm this up: leave 
Straton with the men to secure the horses and plant the charges and take positions, or notBut one 
way or the other, I am going in there. With you or without you." 

"I don't know" Crit had five pairs of Sacred Banders to take care of; he couldn't seem to 
make her understand the gravity of that responsibility. 

"Now you sound like Tempus. Decide, soldier, or muddle through alone," She slipped off the 
big roan the Riddler had loaned her and handed Straton its reins. She was wraithlike in the fading 
light; brown-armored with her crested helm, she might have been a man. But Critas knew from 
sweat-drenched nights that Cime was all woman, and enough more that she made him 
uncomfortable whenever she wasn't making him more comfortable than he'd dreamed a man could 
be. 

This whole operation was a mess; she should have stayed with Tempus, attended to Bashir. "I'm 
not a nurse," she'd said, and invited herself along once Bashir had regained his hold on life, and the 
poison he fought off was no longer an imminent threat. When Bashir was well enough to begin 
supplicating Enlil to melt the snow, she'd proclaimed him healed, and that was that. 

They'd spent one day slogging through the mud and slush Enlil's bright sun and warm winds had 
made of Datan's snow, the whole main contingent kept together by Tempus's order because, he 
said, the men should see their priest surmount his plight and gain their spirit back by watching gods 


make light of hostile magic. This extra day spent altogether put Niko's squadron far ahead and sore 
at risk. Critias didn't understand why neither Tempus or Bashir nor Cime were concerned with that. 
The Riddler simply refused to discuss sending a man or god-facilitated message to warn Niko to lay 
back another day, Cime had laughed at Grit's concern that timing and coordination were crucial to 
the venture, saying only: "I have conferred, dear lover, with Randal. All contingencies have been 
covered. Now come here and kiss me" 

make light of hostile magic. This extra day spent altogether put Niko's squadron far ahead and sore 
at risk. Critias didn't understand why neither Tempus or Bashir nor Cime were concerned with that. 
The Riddler simply refused to discuss sending a man or god-facilitated message to warn Niko to lay 
back another day, Cime had laughed at Grit's concern that timing and coordination were crucial to 
the venture, saying only: "I have conferred, dear lover, with Randal. All contingencies have been 
covered. Now come here and kiss me" 

And now she was all but calling him a coward, He handed his own reins to Strat; their strategy 
was so precisely planned that either left- or right-side partner could recite it in his sleep. Beyond the 
point where strategy or planning would apply, every man was on his own in any case. The attack 
was set for dawn. He slipped an arm around her waist and said, "I'm a fool, but I'm coming with 
you. Just tell me what the point is; I've got to have a sufficient reason to leave my men." 

Straton muttered a farewell blessing and reined the horses back. They stood before a deep 
defile across which they'd just come, every horse and man intact under Cime's aegis: she'd made a 
bridge of cloud where empty air had been before. They'd planned to leave their mounts on its far 
side when they'd gone over the terrain in the Outbridge maproom with Bashir. But Cime changed 
everything, every rule of every gamehe'd been warned, but had chosen not to listen. 

He turned on his heel to give his friend more than a cursory godspeed, but Straton waved him 
off in genuine disgust. That, too, he'd have to solve soon. Cime was disruptive, a passionate 
influence, just as Tempus said. Yet his own instinct told him that the opportunities she offered, in 
more than just the sphere of lust, might never come again. And if the dream lord took offense, or 
even Tempus well, then, that was life. 

"We'll be in and out of there and back among your fighters, leader, before they have time to miss 
you. We'll like as not have slain the archmage or his favorite witch; we'll surely reconnoiter unseen 
halls, maybe open up the doors. Enough 'point' for you, soldier?" 

"Just tell me how," he insisted, uncomfortable, and let her go, squatting down on turf that felt like 
permafrost, so cold it numbed him through his boots. They'd suffered from this weather, horse and 
man alike. 

"Disguises, soldier. We'll look like familiar mages, like friends of whomsoever we chance to 
meet." 

"How? By magic? No thanks, lady. It's against my religion." 

She raised her visor, studied him. "Yes," she sighed, "I suppose it is. Well, I shouldn't be 
surprised that you are all alike. You, my brother, all these men. It's a wonder any of you live to 
regret your prejudices. I thought you'd do, but I was wrong. Stay here, then, soldier. And may your 
god protect you. I cannot." 

He put out a hand to object, opened his mouth to explain, but as he closed his fist where her 
shoulder had just been, there was nothing there but air. 

The mage-killer Cime was gone, winked out of existence as if she'd never been. 

Feeling foolish, but relieved, he headed back toward his men and his horses. 

Straton had never been so glad, he said, to see him as when he came back from the edge of that 
deep defile alone. 

* * * 


Niko and Randal weren't getting on as paired fighters should. But then, Randal wasn't Niko's 
sort of fighter. When they'd used the Successors' tactic of soaring across chasms so deep even 
wizards' snow couldn't hide them, depending on natural updrafts and the favor of the gods to guide 
them to a safe landing, higher up, on the far side, Randal had balked at using the "flimsy" kites and 
come across some other way. 

Niko and Randal weren't getting on as paired fighters should. But then, Randal wasn't Niko's 
sort of fighter. When they'd used the Successors' tactic of soaring across chasms so deep even 
wizards' snow couldn't hide them, depending on natural updrafts and the favor of the gods to guide 
them to a safe landing, higher up, on the far side, Randal had balked at using the "flimsy" kites and 
come across some other way. 

But now, a thousand yards from the high keep's sprawling blackness, whose sentries seemed so 
tiny atop the gargantuan blocks of stone piled high, everyone could see how labyrinthine the fortress 
was, and men had begun to watch their tongues. 

"Why do you think they let us get so far?" Ari wondered through teeth clenched against a 
sharper, less natural cold than that which had made them leave their horses in a Successor-guarded 
cave where they'd spent the day and regained their strength and eaten from stores protected by 
Enlil's talismans. 

Men were caring for their weapons, checking springs on crossbows, pulleys on Nisibisi 
double-strung bows which used helically-fletched arrows instead of bolts or short flights, putting 
poison on their tips with careful fingers. Each bowman had brought up "first line" ammunition: ninety 
bolts or feathered shafts apiece. The archers' concern was rain, which would make the fletched 
shafts go wide and some go useless; the swordsmen just talked low of prior exploits hand-to-hand 
and what they'd do when, ramparts breached, at last they were free to "mix it up" with an enemy so 
long vilified and so hard to convince to stand and fight. This time, all were sure, they'd have to; Niko 
never could remember men so eager for a fight. All the years of being polite to foul enchanters and 
enduring their excesses as if Sacred Banders were a lower class made Stepsons just as passionate 
to shed mages' blood as were the men of Free Nisibis. 

Of all his men, only Ari was reluctant. Niko had requested him because he had liked what he'd 
seen when they first met, and taken Ari's measure while schooling him with blossoms and throwing 
stars. But Haram hadn't liked that, and Tempus' decree was all that came between Niko and Haram 
setting the matter with naked blades. 

Now Niko heard Randal whispering to Ari, who had dared to ask a question no one wanted to 
consider: this whole, easy ascent could have been a trap. The snow might have slowed them but it 
didn't stop them; surely the feared wizardry of Nisibis could wreak more havoc than this. Niko 
crouched and scuttled toward them, keeping low. The lights were lit above them in the magicians' 
fortress; guardians of the ramparts could be seen, in torchlight, to be not quite human. 

Reaching Randal and Ari, Niko broke in: "Randal, nobody really cares why they 'let' us get so 
far, or if they did. Just hold your tongue. Supposition has no place on a battle line." And he pulled 
the junior Hazard away from the omen-conscious special when the mage was succeeding in scaring 
half to death by answering his question in ways a soldier didn't want to hear. 

"Gods, Randal, can't you keep shut? Why I ever brought a pud like you upcountry, I don't 
know. If you live through this, maybe you'll become a man, but if you open your mouth again to one 
of mine with this portentous drivel, I'm going to shut it permanently, on the spot, myself. Clear?" 

Niko would have given the panoply he worecharmed cuirass, dagger, sword, the lotto 
have his old left-side leader back, or Janni instead of Randal on his right. This was his first sortie as 
a unit commander; he had to do it right. 


The mournful look on Randal's face made him try to explain just a little of what it meant to be a 
professional soldier, what a leftman expected from his right, and what commanding fighters like 
these demanded in the way of white lies and the exercise of common sense. He took the mage off 
alone: " so you see, you don't advise them of purported dangers they can't see, you don't tell 
them to beware what they don't know how to fight. We've got to stir them up and help them face 
this thing as if we're engaging an enemy who's equal; let them clutch at winning, not convince them 
that they don't know how to meet this enemy. By Enlil's" 

The mournful look on Randal's face made him try to explain just a little of what it meant to be a 
professional soldier, what a leftman expected from his right, and what commanding fighters like 
these demanded in the way of white lies and the exercise of common sense. He took the mage off 
alone: " so you see, you don't advise them of purported dangers they can't see, you don't tell 
them to beware what they don't know how to fight. We've got to stir them up and help them face 
this thing as if we're engaging an enemy who's equal; let them clutch at winning, not convince them 
that they don't know how to meet this enemy. By Enlil's" 

Niko slapped him, backhanded, across the cheek without even thinking. "Lies. Didn't Cime 
'contact' you in some mysterious way and tell you to tell me to pull back a day and wait?" 

"Yes, yes, but that's just what I mean" 

They were arguing in low and urgent tones, walking upright now behind a shielding tumble of 
high boulders through which not even Wizardwall's best could see, when suddenly Niko heard his 
name whispered, and Randal his, and both men stopped. 

"Oh, by the Writ, we've done it now," the Hazard said, and clutched at Niko: "Go on, soldier. 
Run. Flee. Your men can't do without you I'll handle" 

But then the whispers came into view, and Randal's hissing voice was stilled. 

Undeads with pure white eyes shuffled through the snow with hands outstretched and smiling 
faces: Tamzen, his beloved Tamzen, in the lead. And each child was weeping, begging Niko to help 
them, please, to free them and to comfort them and to take them home. They missed their mothers 
and their fathers and they missed their home, and they were damned because of him, 

"Don't listen. Draw your weapons, fighter," Randal urged, his own fingers weaving blue-tinged 
wards before his face. 

There were six undeads, Tamzen, her girlfriends, and other children Niko wished he didn't 
know: youngsters slain in battles long ago, in sacks of towns, or afterwards, when those who can't 
be saved must be dispatched; one even from the slavepits where he'd been incarcerated, a boy 
who'd died beside him of soldiers' rape in chains. 

Randal's voice was distant, indistinct. Tamzen's face implored him. He'd seen it in too many 
dreams to let the white eyes frighten him. He was used to her; his soul cried for her; he thought 
they'd come to take him off to play their games amid the grass and summer of his rest-place. He 
had to touch her, to hold, console her; he had to make amends 

He was walking toward her, arms spread wide, when Randal tripped him and he fell face down 
into the snow. The cold of it upon his cheeks and in his mouth helped to bring him to his 
sensesthat and the way his cuirass was heating up. It steamed where it touched the snow and he 
heard: "Draw your blade, idiot. Or you'll be wandering around like them for eternity!" but the voice 
was muffled. 

Niko rolled, confused, onto his back and saw Randal with three undeads hanging on his arms 
and pulling at his clothing, their teeth bared and their mouths open wide, and they were chanting 
awful, low sounds interspersed with clacks of snapping jaws. He could see the mage's popping 
eyes, his fearful struggles. 

"Hold on, Randal!" He vaulted up, cross-drawing sword and dirk as he gained his feet and 


leaped toward the struggling Hazard, being pulled down into the snow. 

leaped toward the struggling Hazard, being pulled down into the snow. 

But as his sword went through the first, head and torso disappeared, and when his continuing 
swing touched the shoulder of the second, it howled and fell apart; and the third, Randal's blood 
running from its mouth, scrambled back, its hands outstretched, calling: "Niko, Niko, don't! We're 
friends. You can't slay me!" But the dirk in his left hand, with a will of its own, shot forward out of 
his grip and impaled itself in the neck of the boy he'd watch die so long ago upon a slaver's chain. 

"Niko! Niko! Stop!" It was Tamzen's voice, this time, tremulous and full of fear, and as he 
wheeled to face her specter, something jumped upon him from behind, its clammy hands locked 
around his neck, its childish legs clamped to his sides. 

Then it screamed as its limbs made contact with the cuirass, and burst into flame and threw itself 
back to sputter and flare into the snow. 

Tamzen and her best friend advanced upon him, and he could barely see them for his tears. 
Tamzen's sobs were soft and low: "Hold me, Niko; hold me, I'm so cold." 

He lowered his sword uncertainly, an instant, and in that instant both undeads sprang, their 
fingers crooked like claws. 

Years of training prompted him; he didn't have to think; he stepped in, not out, and the blade so 
hot and shining now with ruddy light was like a living being in his grip, slicing down into the breast of 
a girl he'd introduced to love and been at pains, always, to protect. The blade went through as if 
through cheese and continued, the momentum of its arc catching the other girl beneath her ribs and 
opening her from side to side. 

But they didn't fall into lifeless puddles right away; they didn't disappear; they both stood a 
moment, fingers with long, long nails spread over the wounds he'd madewhich would have killed 
them if they'd only been alive. And Tamzen cocked her head, and nodded, said: "Niko. I knew 
you'd come," and tears streamed from her eyes, no longer white-on-white, but human eyes, dark 
like velvet, as they'd been in life. She tottered, turning to her friend, saying: "See, I told you Niko'd 
save us!" and then both she and the other girl disintegrated in a gust of wind. There was a puff of 
fetid dust which blew his way, then nothing, only Randal scrambling, panting, through the snow, 
holding a wound that bled profusely at his neck, his breath rasping: 

"Bless you, Niko, bless you. By the Writ, that was as close to damned as I ever want to come." 

Niko backed away. "Your neck. You're wounded. Are you now undead yourself? Or worse?" 

The mageling managed a facsimile of a chuckle: "You've been listening to too many fireside tales 
spun by your gullible comrades. A little snow to clean the wound, a healing draught to give me 
strength, and I'll be fit and well again." Randal held out his free hand. In it was the dirk Akelon had 
given Niko. "Take it. It's still hot, but then you're used to that. And don't talk to me about 
proscribed methods or magic in the future, fighter, not with weaponry like this." 

And Randal clapped him on the back, so that Niko had to shrug him off and tell the mage that 
he'd join him back at camp when he was ready, and Randal should precede him: "Don't say 
anything about this to them, no matter how proud you are of not dying on the spot from fear or 
whatever kind of omen you think you've made of this, or for any other reason. Understood?" 

"Yes, commander," Randal aped a cringe of terror and hurried off with exaggerated stealth. 


Niko was so sick at heart from what he'd seen, he didn't even have the will to correct the 
mageling: one doesn't call one's leftman "commander." 

Niko was so sick at heart from what he'd seen, he didn't even have the will to correct the 
mageling: one doesn't call one's leftman "commander." 

The assault on the high peaks keep came with dawn; pink-tipped arrows raced a hundred yards 
straight up, glowing with Enlil's sanction, almost invisible in the tricky light of sunrise, to fell human 
thralls and fiends upon the ramparts. Ghouls yowled; undeads sparked and flared and burst apart 
when the god-sent arrows pierced them; demons crashed from dizzying heights to splatter on the 
rocks below. 

And as the sun banished night with lavender and pink and lemon light, the very foundations of 
the citadel began to tremble and to shake, and warlocks to quake where they girded for battle. 

Women wailed; wizards paled, someone cleared the wards from gates and high doors, front 
and back, and the enemy poured in where men were never meant to tread. 

Datan's remaining minions and the bravest of the sorcerers had been on the southern rampart, 
trying to rout the tiny men below and stop the rain of quarrels whispering death as they whistled 
over walls magic should have kept secure, when flames licked the ancient rock which by some trick 
of Enlil's began to burn like tinder. The defenders begged for mercy as they roasted, but eager 
underworld claws and grasping hands from other planes reached out to take them. The very 
heavens split asunder, and specters of eternal retribution strode atop the battlements to claim 
shriveled souls they'd long been promised. 

By the time it was clear that the attack on the keep's southern flank was just diversion, charges 
shook the towers, and stones began to rumble and tumble, and Nisibisi warlocks ran sobbing 
through its halls. The guardians of their fate knew who was due for death this day and weren't 
content to wait. They brought their deeper darkness along, cold and dank with death, to trap adepts 
and wrap up prized and damned witches who'd traded all they had and now could only weep and 
cower when their spells died unsaid upon their lips and eternity beckoned all to begin to pay a price 
that suddenly seemed too great. But it was too late for everyone who'd lived too long and fed on 
hapless, weaker souls. They shrieked; they threw themselves off towers and sought to gulp down 
poisoned draughts or fall upon cursed swords. But it was too late; the reckoning was here. Even 
repentance, tried by some, availed them not; they had bargained away their final option of salvation 
for power, long ago. The gods they supplicated had lost scores of followers to sorcery, and met 
wizards' pleas with lists of unspeakable sins whose payment had come due. 

Roxane closed her ears to rumbling stones and cringing women's cries and ran, her hands above 
her head to ward off the ancient mortar and pulverized stone falling all about. Whoever had opened 
up the doors had to pay for treachery; she sought the coward among her own, but there were too 
many: she couldn't tell. 

She skidded round a corner and saw Tempus' Stepsons thronging hallowed halls, every javelin 
and drawn sword and flying wing and crossbow bolt glowing pink with sanction from the god. She 
stopped. She estimated forces and chances. She turned and fled the other way, pushing aside other, 
lesser witches frozen in confusion or dashing aimlessly about, seeking protection in places where it 
could not be found. 

Datan's fault, all this. She'd known it would go ill when he'd come to her with his princeling 
wide-eyed by his side, fresh from debauching with the boy, and demanded she sic her most 
precious undeads upon Niko and his Hazard friend, young Randal. It wouldn't work; it was too 


soon, she had objected. But Datan was still her ruler; she'd not chanced confronting him right then. 
So she'd lost her personal protection, given up Tamzen and her playmates to try to make an end to 
Randal without killing Nikoeven in these straits, she'd wanted Stealth alive, somehow to save him 
while putting his team of fighters out of action. But Randal, more selfless than she'd thought a mage 
could be, had put his person's safety by and striven to save Nikoin the end, she'd lost her best 
undeads. 

soon, she had objected. But Datan was still her ruler; she'd not chanced confronting him right then. 
So she'd lost her personal protection, given up Tamzen and her playmates to try to make an end to 
Randal without killing Nikoeven in these straits, she'd wanted Stealth alive, somehow to save him 
while putting his team of fighters out of action. But Randal, more selfless than she'd thought a mage 
could be, had put his person's safety by and striven to save Nikoin the end, she'd lost her best 
undeads. 

She'd seen enough; she turned again and fled toward the inner sanctums, where a witch might 
make away or make a stand and pass from life with honor. 

On her way, she cursed the soul of Datan, who was nowhere to be found, hearing Critias and 
Tempus shouting maneuver codes behind her as they fought their way upward, stair by stair. 
Stopping long enough to peer out a high tower's embrasure, she saw in the courtyard far below 
such carnage as made even one so inured to horror as Roxane close her eyes. 

Datan. she knew, could stop this, Tempus would call a halt to war to face him, hand to hand. 
Heart pounding, she dashed through the seraglio's carpet of weeping women swooning on the floor 
and eunuchs of the blood huddled in the corner, seeking Wizardwall's master where he hid. 

Behind the faceless wall of stone which barred the summoning chamber from the lesser mages 
and the sight of men, she found him, with the sleeping Froth Daughter and his boy. In the center of 
his power glyphs he stood, his huge bulk somehow smaller. And, beyond, the globe he used to 
concentrate his power spun, colors from its inset stones making kaleidoscopic patterns on the walls. 

"Hold, Datan! Stand and fight! This slaughter doesn't have to be. Go face the Riddler! This is 
your doing! Undo it and save those adherents whom you may!" She strode over warming stones 
and stopped the globe, biting her lip at the sizzling pain she felt when she touched it with her hand. 
Then the soulless eyes of the Osprey fixed on her. and as he whispered, "No," and shook his head, 
his arm raised up and a finger pointed at her. 

She was going to speak his true nameit was only fair, for this fat and loathsome creature 
whom she'd served had betrayed every single one of them. 

But Datan's spell worked faster. From his finger a bolt of royal blue shot out and caught her by 
the throat. Struck dumb, she reeled and stumbled backward, hit the wall and slid down it, nearly 
senseless, crumpled in a heap. 

The little boy let out a cry and ran to her. Shamshi's eyes were filled with tears. He looked up at 
his sire, and back to her, murmuring, "Roxane, oh Roxane, can you hear? Speak to me! Speak to 
me!" 

She struggled to put out her hand and then she touched him, stroked his hair. Her vision cleared, 
and with what strength she yet had, she took his hand in hers. And into the boy she poured herself, 
taking over mind and tongue. 

Datan wouldn't strike his own child dead or dumb, she knew. And as she opened Shamshi's 
mouth to use his vocal cords and lungs to speak the Osprey's true name and consign him to the hell 
he'd earned, Datan realized what it was she had in mind, and that great hulk of a creature wheeled 
with more speed than she'd thought he had, and even began to run, casting behind him another 
agonizing spell that made all things fade away: the chamber of summoning, the princely child who'd 
not hurt anyone or anything, the glyphs and globeeverything dissolved in pain and fractured, 
rainbow lights. 


When next she thought at all, she thought she heard Jinan, awake. She looked up, blinking, 
trying to focus over the head of the boy who hugged her close and sobbed her name. Jihan stood 
there, though beyond she saw a sleeping form upon the couch where Jihan had long been snoring, 
insensible, at rest. 

When next she thought at all, she thought she heard Jinan, awake. She looked up, blinking, 
trying to focus over the head of the boy who hugged her close and sobbed her name. Jihan stood 
there, though beyond she saw a sleeping form upon the couch where Jihan had long been snoring, 
insensible, at rest. 

And with what strength she still possessed, she whispered it, told the Froth Daughter what to 
say, and lost sight of everything once again. 

* * * 

Half the outer wall was crumbled; debris and bodies were everywhere. Tempus' eyes were 
smarting from the sulfurous fumes and the stench of rot that set in once these ancient foes met death. 
His sword glowed pink and dripped with acid blood and wherever he stepped ichor, in grainy 
puddles, ate into the paving stones. 

He'd seen Critias, Straton too. They were bloodied but their teeth were bared and their eyes 
glittered with the shine of men engaging a worthy enemy in an honest fight. 

Bashir he'd left long since, protected by his god and twenty men. The priest was still weakened 
from the demon spittle in his blood, but his god was not, and Enlil's blessing had helped to win the 
day. 

He ran through halls where wizards sought surrender and met their deaths instead. Small young 
demons flapped their wings above, and with his last three quarrels he dispatched them. His 
twice-human speed and his flickering, shark-hiked sword made him the avatar of death, and he 
meted it out with impunity to all he met. 

There was neither time for nor use in taking captives here, where every foe had 
more-than-human guile and none knew mortal restraint. He had seen Stepsons go down with their 
throats torn out; he'd pulled fiends off friends of his who'd had legs or arms bitten through so that 
jagged bones peeked out. The fury he'd once thought was lent him by a god raged inside him; now 
he knew it was his own. The last time he had met inhuman foes, he'd taken far too long to heal. Yet 
he'd lived to fight at least this one more time and if indeed he met his death here seeking Datan, his 
heart's sworn enemy, the mage he hated most of mages, an archmage he'd cursed throughout the 
ages, then he'd be content with that. One head and one alone he longed to sever. Once he'd seen 
Datan to his eternal unrest, Tempus would have avenged the spirit of Abarsis, Niko's suffering, and 
even crippled magic's rule upon a land so fraught with troubles that the meddling of enchanters was 
a wretched, godless expression of evil and excess. 

A clawlike, warty appendage snatched at him from a foggy shadow: some demon lying in wait. 
He slashed with sword and the hand fell twitching; a demon cursed his name. He shrugged it off: 
accursed so thoroughly as he'd been through the eons, one more ill-wisher meant little to his fate. 

He'd taken cuts; his naked arms bled freely; his right cheek was abraded. But his stamina was 
undiminished. 

He stalked Datan through every corridor and at last, on the highest rampart against an 
inappropriately delicate and lovely morning sky all blue and gold and fleeced with clouds, he found 
him. 

The archmage had both arms lifted, and dark turbulence was beginning to mass far in the west. 

"Datan! Turn and fight, arch-enemy of old." 

The massive head turned but words no man should ever hear in a tongue which was the native 


speech of hell burned Tempus's ears and made them ring as if he'd been struck hard upon the head. 

speech of hell burned Tempus's ears and made them ring as if he'd been struck hard upon the head. 

And as he longed for battle, hand to hand, he forced his limbs to move, though dark assailed 
him, dark from Datan's eyes. He'd have him, or be had by this prince of horror. Either way, he'd 
win. Death was no stranger to a man who'd fought so many wars; sometimes he thought they had an 
understanding, he and the reaper whom Tempus had served so well, bringing multitudes to their 
fate. 

Doggedly, he closed, though dark winds wailed around him and cold bit at his flesh. 

He heard hell's hounds howl and sirens sing and then, as he was struggling to come the last few 
yards, old Datan laughed a gusting laugh that blew the pink glow of salvation from Tempus's sword 
and thrust him back as if from a parrying blow. But then the world, instead of fading into blackness, 
grew bright: 

Jihan stood there, her scale armor afire, her arms outstretched not to him, but to the 
archmage. 

And for an instant Datan's eyes left his, where they'd been locked in awful battle, and Tempus, 
the archmage's hold on his senses broken, stumbled forward as if physical bonds had been cut 
away, his sword arcing down and singing through the air. 

But the copper-scaled woman was quicker still: Jihan stepped close, then closer, to the 
archmage, saying, "Thy name is Uomo, thy fate is agony unending. Go thee to the reward thine 
awful life has earned, and stay! I banish thee!" She shot her hands forward and Datan, his mouth 
open wide and hands up to shield his ears, his soulless eyes tight shut, stumbled back, and back, 
and as he did so, the crenelated wall behind him crumbled away and a black rent in Nature's fabric 
took its place. 

From it horrid devils leaped and grabbed him with talons so hot that his skin smoked and 
crackled, and Datan, the Os-prey, Uomo and archmage of all Wizardwall, let go a cry of terror so 
loud and horrible and ringing that everywhere fighting had been raging, men stopped still, demons 
dropped their prey and fled, fiends went to ground, and all about, a silence thick as sleep came over 
them. 

Datan's wailing, kicking struggles as hell's coils closed about him soon diminished, and then the 
black tunnel into hell had swallowed him, and began to shrink and spin in upon itself, and it too soon 
was gone. 

Tempus sank down where he was, his breath coming hard and his knees weak and shaking, 
glad for rock beneath his feet and gods above, after what he'd glimpsed beyond that dark maw 
where Datan was well and truly bound. 

"Jihan," Tempus said, "thank the gods you're safe. We've found you" 

A tinkling laugh made him look up and then sit upon the stone, his sword clattering to the flags 
where it steamed and cooled. What had been Jihan in tri-color scale armor was changing shape, 
shimmering and wriggling. 

He wasn't sure he had the strength to fight another foe. He merely watched the transformation 
under way, and then lay back flat: it was Cime, his benighted sister, who stood there laughing at him 
gently in her brown-black armor, and her blacker humor chilled him. 

"Jihan," she mimicked, "thank the gods thank me, brother. Without me to save you, you'd 


have had the seat next to Datan's in some musty hell. It's a good thing I was here to help, that's 
sure, or you'd have let your men be slaughtered for no better reason than" 

have had the seat next to Datan's in some musty hell. It's a good thing I was here to help, that's 
sure, or you'd have let your men be slaughtered for no better reason than" 

"Not quite forever, brother. But nearly so." Her voice was close; she leaned down over him. 
"Now, are we going to be mature about matters, and let me heal thee? Or is suffering so beloved in 
your sight that you'll take extra, more even than your due?" 

He was full of demon's poison, exhausted and weak. He couldn't find the strength or make up 
excuses not to let her help him. And so, with words and deeds, Cime managed one more time to 
bleed the joy from triumph, to belittle him even in what might have been his finest moment. He 
closed his eyes and let her tend him, a submission he was loath to make. 

Afterwards, he and she together went seeking Jihan behind a solid-looking wall his sister waved 
away as if it were a curtain. 

And there he found the sleeping Froth Daughter and a weeping tow-headed boy named 
Shamshi, son of Adrastus Ajami, the Mygdonian general, who was reluctant to believe that the 
bloody giant in gory mail and the battle-armored woman were his saviors. 

Tempus soon convinced him, over Cime's objections, that he was in friendly hands that would 
soon return him to his rightful home in far Mygdonia. 

Crit appeared, soon after women had begun to weep in Ac seraglio beyond, to ask if there was 
anything that Tempos needed, any instructions as to the disposition of the women, or anything else 
that Crit should know. He gave the boy into Critias's custody, saying: "Guard him well; he's special. 
As for those women, let Cime make sure that they're all harmlessno witches hiding in among 
themthen let the men consider them as spoils. Speaking of which, find Bashir, and start dividing 
what we've got here. Have you seen Grillo? Niko? " 

Crit said laconically, "Both. They'll live. And Randal, too, I'd bet, though now it's over, he's got 
an uneasy stomach that he says some krrf might cure." Crit was looking straight at Cime, an odd 
expression on his face: "My lady? Shall we obey our orders?" He bowed a mock and sweeping 
bow and Cime brushed haughtily past him, so that Tempus knew they were no longer quite such 
close friends as they'd been before. 

She called back instructions, telling Tempus what words would wake the Froth Daughter, and: 
"Since she's about to join you, I'll be bidding you goodbye. Don't bother to kiss me a fond farewell, 
my brother. I've no doubt we'll meet again. Regards from Akelon to you and Jihan. And do be 
careful, if you can." 

"Not so fast, sister. You've taken coin from me and not yet given satisfaction. You're not going 
anywhere without my leave, and I won't give it." 

She glared at him, stuck out her tongue, made a handsign that was fit more for a Stepson than a 
woman, and stalked away with Critias, his smirk ill-hidden in her wake. 

Then he went to the Froth Daughter, sleeping on her bed, and leaned down close and, before he 
spoke the words to wake her, kissed her flushed and lovely lips. Sitting back, her cool hand in his, 
he said them. Her eyelids fluttered. He was relieved: It was not beyond his sister to tell him wrong, 
to give him words to say which would hurt, not wake, her rival. 

But Jihan's eyes came open, blinked. She stretched, pulling her hand from his. She rubbed her 
eyes; she sat up, frowning, demanding: "What's this with you and the widow Maldives? I'm only 
gone a few days and you have some petty twit to hump instead? How can you debase our union 
so? And what, pray, are you doing here? Where's Datan? You haven't done that poor man harm, I 


hope. He's told me all about the grudge you bear" 

hope. He's told me all about the grudge you bear" 

* * * 

Despite the biers being set and the funerary games to come, Niko had been glad to leave the 
captured citadel early. He wanted only to reclaim his sable horse from the Successor-guarded cave 
where he had left it and to be rid of Randal, whom Tempus had decreed he must escort safely back 
to Tyse, though Niko suspected that the Tysian Hazard didn't need any Stepson's help. During the 
battle, when he and Ari had used up the last of their blossoms and stars and were pinned down in a 
stairwell by three gigantic, drooling fiends with whirlpool eyes, Randal had changed from man to 
towering, fiend-eating beast and devoured an enemy to whom poisoned blossoms were mere 
irritations. Niko, sword drawn, crossbow bolts expended, had been ready to move in and take 
what wounds he must to engage them with his dream-forged sword. But Randal had beaten him to 
it. Randal had, like as not, saved them. And Randal, throughout the entire battle, had been steady 
on Niko's right, so that never during the protracted fighting had Niko needed to worry about his 
back or even think about what might be coming up behind him. 

The slight, long-necked, large-eared mageling had proved his worth in Niko's eyes, even put 
Stealth in his debt. But explaining that to other Stepsons would be perceived as boasting or some 
excuse for having accepted a sorcerer on his right; he didn't try it. The Stepsons in his unit had seen 
what kind of fighter Randal was; the rest would hear it from men whom, unlike Niko, they could 
believe. 

For his part, he wanted to be quit of Randal, and wished he didn't feel that way. So when they'd 
brought their unit through without a casualty or incapacitating wound and stood in Datan's sanctum 
after Crit had counted heads and the Riddler himself given out commendations, Niko had made sure 
that Randal knew he was entitled to a Stepson's share of spoils. 

"I want nothing, Stealth; I'm pleased to have been of service." Randal had just come back from 
conferring, head to head, with Tempus, and Niko saw a smile in the mageling's eyes. "Feeling 
better, fighter? You ought to be. Though Roxane's not been found, Cime, Bashir, myself and your 
commander all agree: the witch's hold.. .power, that is is broken. You'rewe're free of her and 
Datan and all the rest." 

"So? Why tell me? Look here, Randal, you saved my life. Take something. It's not fitting if you 
don't." And Stealth had looked around him, spied the magician's globe which lay tumbled off its 
golden stand and picked it up. A moment's examination confirmed Niko's first impression: the globe 
was studded with precious stones and marked with arcane glyphs, its diameter such that it fit nicely 
under his arm. 

He'd brought it back and held it out: "Here. This globe's for you. My share and yours will more 
than cover what it's worth, and I want to call us even. You'll make good use of mis, I own." 

"Oh, my Niko. I couldn't" The mage murmured, his astounded countenance confirming that 
this was just the sort of spoils to put a gleam in an enchanter's eye. 

"You'd better. Or I'll tear you limb from limb." He'd tossed the globe and Randal was at pains to 
catch it before it hit the floor and smashed. 

So he'd come out evennot beholden to some Hazard of the mageguild or stuck with a 
right-side partner he didn't want or need. His men had fared well, luckier than some. There were six 


biers to be lit and seven seriously wounded who'd need litters to be carried down or have to stay 
awhile in the citadel, which was undergoing intense and fervid purification to purge it of all traces of 
evil. Niko could see the smoke and hear the chanting of Bashir's Successors and even see Enlil's 
sanctifying glow upon the remaining towers as he and Randal took their leave. 

biers to be lit and seven seriously wounded who'd need litters to be carried down or have to stay 
awhile in the citadel, which was undergoing intense and fervid purification to purge it of all traces of 
evil. Niko could see the smoke and hear the chanting of Bashir's Successors and even see Enlil's 
sanctifying glow upon the remaining towers as he and Randal took their leave. 

And the Riddler had said nothing, staring off over a mountainside of frostbitten grass and dead, 
brown clover, his tiny kill-smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

Niko had objected heatedly that special favors from ente-lechies in higher spheres were 
something he didn't crave and offered back the cuirass, sword and dirk. 

"You'd best keep them, fighter. You still need all the help you can get," she'd replied. 

He'd been impolite: "I'm not used to taking orders from a woman. And if I need a patron, I have 
Enlil to call on, as befits a Stepson. So you just tell your unholy boyfriend 'no," next time you see 
him: I want no part of him or you." 

Then Tempus had turned about, and taken Stealth aside, telling him to go on ahead and to forget 
about what she'd said, but: "Keep the panoply. We all need what help we can get." 

So, under orders, he'd done as he'd been bid and brought Randal, one Trs horse, and those 
men he'd led upcountry back to Tyseall but the Successors, who stayed there in the high peaks 
with Bashir. 

And Bashir had wished him life and offered him a home with them, which Niko appreciated but 
declined. He'd loved Bashir, loved him still, but his friend was too much the instrument of his god. In 
their younger days it hadn't been like that, but then Bashir's father had still lived. Bashir had ridden 
down as far as the cave with him, though, and they'd embraced and talked about the future: 

"You are still going west to Bandara?" Bashir had asked, his wide brow knit with worry lines 
and flat face full of care. 

"I'm not sure. The fighting made me think I might be better off solving my problems on my 
ownno gods, no adepts, no special helpjust me. That's it in the end, I've come to think: just 
you. That's all any of us have got." 

Bashir had tsk'd mournfully: "Shrivel me, Niko, if you weren't so stubbornly agnostic, you'd 
make a formidable warrior-priest." 

"No thanks. Gods have bloody hands. I'm reverent from a distance. I don't want to be any 
closer to the gods than death will bring me, and for that companionship, I'm content to wait." 

So they'd parted on a note of honesty, each wishing the other was different than he'd become. 

But the sable horse was just exactly rightperfect, Niko thought. With all the responsibility of 
leading men in battle, he'd not had time to revel in just how good was this horse he had. Even the 
shadow cast over the gift by its source had been banished by the sunny days through which he rode 
it down to Tyse, a dozen fighters at his back. Tempus had spoken of breeding the reclaimed Trs 


horses and both the sables during the coming winter quartering: a stud farm could be purchased by 
Stealth and his commander; they'd buy a dozen mares and charge no stud fee to Stepsons. Both the 
Riddler and Niko were eager to see if the sables would breed true; the sable mare they'd certainly 
breed back to Niko's stallion, and thus fix the pure Akelonian line. And Niko's mare, once she 
threw her Trs foal, would be immediately bred to his new mount; he could hardly wait for them to 
meet. 

horses and both the sables during the coming winter quartering: a stud farm could be purchased by 
Stealth and his commander; they'd buy a dozen mares and charge no stud fee to Stepsons. Both the 
Riddler and Niko were eager to see if the sables would breed true; the sable mare they'd certainly 
breed back to Niko's stallion, and thus fix the pure Akelonian line. And Niko's mare, once she 
threw her Trs foal, would be immediately bred to his new mount; he could hardly wait for them to 
meet. 

Passing by the mercenaries' hostel, its back doors open wide, made Niko think of Cybele and 
the Peace River house in which she'd died. He'd learned long since to accept lost loved ones. Death 
came where and when it willed. But a part of him felt that somehow the sweet young girl he'd tried 
to help had died because of him. 

In Brother Bomba's, its proprietress was effusive in her welcome, near beside her stately self 
with joy to hear that the Riddler's force had triumphed, and all but two Stepsons would be coming 
homethe others dead were Grille's specials and Successors, men she didn't know or care about. 

It wasn't until Niko's belly was full of food and wine and his head was pleasantly spinning from 
the pulcis mixture laced with krrf Madame Bomba pressed on him "to remind you of our business 
deal, and, of course, because you're my favorite Stepson," that he remembered what Randal had 
said: Feeling better, fighter? 

The words danced in his memory while a girl Madame Bomba sicced on him tried to lure him 
upstairs to give him a "hero's" welcome, so that as he thought back over all the fighting he tried to 
determine just when he'd regained that particular balance between apprehension and acuity that 
Niko called his moat. Perhaps about the time they'd fought the giant fiends, he guessed, but like all 
things which really matter to a man, the moment he'd reclaimed his equilibrium had passed away 
unnoticed: It was so natural to Niko to proceed with perspicuity and balance, once it returned it 
was as if he'd never been without it. 

Leaving Bomba's without the cadre, ponying Tempus' extra Trs behind his sable horse, he rode 
due west toward Outbridge, part drunk, part drugged, but with most of him turned inward, 
reclaiming his rest-place. Where his mind went then, no agonized spirits met him, no ghosts loitered 
nor specters resided: just peace and a safe, green field for contemplation met him. 

Riding thus, he heard his name called: once, then again. 

He pulled his sable to a halt and looked around, then listened. He knew that voice. He called 
out: "Cybele? Cybele?" and waited for an answer. But none came. 

Shaking his head, he cursed what must have been too many drugs he'd ingested during the 
revelry back at Bomba's, then urged the sable into a lope. He was on the outskirts of the Outbridge 
quarter, where Grillo kept a house and others of high station had sculpted hedges and well-guarded, 
walled estates. It must have been an illusion, he decided, part guilt and part wishful thinking. 

Yet when he rode through sentried gates at the Outbridge barracks, Cybele's fate still rankled. 
Refusing to think about her didn't help his mood. Both krrf and pulcis have a downside, and Niko 
never had been much of a drinker. 

In the inner court, he had to fend off a crowd of anxious, then ebullient, stay-at-homes who 
wanted word of the Stepsons' faring in the battle, and find stable room for Tempus' precious Trs 
and his new sable; then take time for a reunion with his mare. 


He was stroking her, inside her stall, letting her rub her head against his hip and whicker while he 
scratched the spot where neck met chest so that she closed her eyes and sighed, when he heard it 
again: "Niko? Niko?" 

He was stroking her, inside her stall, letting her rub her head against his hip and whicker while he 
scratched the spot where neck met chest so that she closed her eyes and sighed, when he heard it 
again: "Niko? Niko?" 

For an instant he thought that it must be the waif he'd run to ground when he first crossed the 
Nisibisi border, but then she called out, soft and low, "Oh, Niko, I'm so glad I found you," and ran 
toward him. 

"Cybele? Cybele? But how? What? Tempus said" He vaulted over the stall's door. 

"Hush, hush, my lord, Don't ask me any questions." Her arms were about him, her soft blond 
hair in his nose, and she wantedso she saidto lie with him just one more time in fond embrace 
before she took her leave forever. 

She wouldn't answer any questions; she kissed them from his lips. She made him promise not to 
say a word to anyone, especially not to Tempus, about this final tryst: "You must not say you've 
seen me. Your commander and I are enemies, he thinks, though some day he may reconsider. 
Now, promise me." 

"I I promise." He had her in his arms and all he could think of was the bed of straw that 
awaited in the hayloft. 

* * * 

Roxane flew north on eagle's wings; Niko slept soundly, far below and far behind her. It had 
been a risky move she'd made, for reasons barely understood, to take again the Cybele form and 
bed him one more time. But when Datan had gone to his reward, the string she'd latched onto that 
the archmage tied so long before was snapped like twine; her hold on the fighter war-named Stealth 
was broken. 

But his on her, it seemed, had not been. To break it clean and start anew, she'd had first to face 
the fact that it was there; then face, straight-on, all she'd done and lost because she'd fallen in love 
with a petty mortal and not been wise enough to know it. If anything had won the day on 
Wizardwall and lost the war for magic, it had been her feelings for a youth who didn't even know 
her. 

So she'd flown south, not north, to lie with him in carnal love and try to overcome her feelings. 
Failing that, she'd hoped to convince herself in some way that saving him was worth it. 

But Niko was what Niko wasno more, no latent mage or superman; she left no quieter of 
heart than when she'd arrived. She had to leave. He loved Cybele, not Roxane. Too many forces 
worked against her here: the Cybele form was known, notorious; he had friends among the 
mageguild; the Riddler considered himself young Stealth's protector; and even Akelon coveted the 
child's allegiance. She'd hoped to find out why, what the fuss was over this resoundingly mortal boy. 
She hadn't. Nor had she banished love with another dose of it, as she'd hoped. In his mind, which 
she'd so long inhabited, she could find naught to hate. 

Below, the pastoral fires of evening lit; the purple sky ahead was glorious. In Mygdonia she'd 
settle, build a following, a power base, and wait for Shamshi to come home. She'd insinuate herself 
into the Mygdonian court: they were sore in need of mages, and she knew just how to do it. 

But she couldn't outfly her regret, one she'd never thought she'd have: for once in a long and 
powerful life, Roxane wished that she were mortal, inconsequential, featherheaded and girlish with 
modest wants in fact, she wished she could be Cybele. But live a life with Niko as a wench? 
Age? Lose his favor to others? And for what? 


An eagle's cry rang out across the steppes, and echoed. 

An eagle's cry rang out across the steppes, and echoed. 

She would remember him fondly; have him later. She was, after all, Death's Queen: she was 
eternal: she was Roxane. 

* * * 

A week after coming down off Wizardwall, Tempus was still plagued with repercussions from 
his "victory." 

War with Lacan Ajami's Mygdonian Alliance was now winnable; on this everyone, from Grillo 
to Bashir, agreed. On nothing else could Tempus reach a consensus: not on where the Stepsons 
would best be fielded next, or whether Successors or specials should continue to be integrated into 
his shock troops, nor even if Tyse was a suitable permanent base for his Sacred Banders, though a 
manifestation of Abarsis on bier day in the high peaks had convinced the fighters themselves of that. 

The problems were political, and as far as politics were concerned, Tempus tended to agree 
with Critias: they'd be better off without them and those who acted selfishly, cloaked in this or that 
"political necessity." 

His cadre would do what he ordered, and, finally disgusted with territorial wrangling from 
Grillo's camp and purportedly god-prompted advice from Bashir's, he ordered it to settle in and 
begin training up for an undisclosed venture. 

These problems he was having with men unable to consider themselves less than 
"co-commanders," his sister Cime proclaimed, were of his own making: he just wasn't capable of 
being any less than completely and autocratically in control. 

If this were true, he would have ridden both his sister and Jinan out of town tarred and feathered 
on matching rails, or lashed them to rafts and let Peace River wash them out of his hair, he retorted 
one night. He wasn't used to being henpecked, and those hens he had were dauntingly powerful, the 
pecking order itself their main concern. 

He reminded himself that women were divisive, spent as much time as he could steal with his 
sable Akelonian mare, and fended off his sister's advances as best he might. In all these years, he'd 
never succumbed to her. But riding alone out behind the Outbridge station, he admitted that he 
wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer. The night before, at dinner in his quarters, they had 
been alone, and Cime had spoken bitterly of the years she'd scoured a world quite like this one, but 
subtly different (a world a plane away), of sorcerers, until Akelon alone had remained: 

"And you know how I botched that up, brother." She'd sighed and shifted so that she lay fiat on 
her cushions with her head on his lap. "If I'd know that being cured of my curse would mean I'd 
have to subject myself to interminable happiness and unending boredom in the dream lord's realm, 
I'd have finished him on the beach that day. Then there would be no Froth Daughter to trouble you, 
or dreams of mortality at the sour price of humbling yourself to Akelon. Believe, brother, no 
afterlife is sweet enough to be worth bending your knee and bowing this," she reached up and ran a 
finger through his hair, then down across his lips, "glorious head to the entelechy of banality. Hug 
your strife close, dear one, and battle on. It suits you. Life on the golden streets and the crystal 
quays of that archipelago would drive you mad, if life it is. Now, come here and let's take the sport 
we've earned; you've paid me, here I am" 

He'd pulled away only when his hand in hers lay on her breast, thinking there must be a trick 
here somewhere; perhaps she though incest would keep Akelon at bay. He used the thought of it 
to keep her from seducing him: though their mothers were different, the chance remained, despite 
the legend that a god of war had sired him, that their fathers were the same. 


He'd said: "You think to use me as a shield against the dream lord? Think again, Cime. I'll keep 
you owing until I decide it's time." 

He'd said: "You think to use me as a shield against the dream lord? Think again, Cime. I'll keep 
you owing until I decide it's time." 

He'd found solace with the Froth Daughter, who was livid with jealousy and rage: "Bad enough 
she stole my destined husband, now she'll have you too, and I, who am innocent of any wrongdoing 
whatsoever, will be left all alone with only soldiers! Riddler, tend me well, or my father will hear this 
whole sordid tale!" 

Between the two of them, he was miserable, and his sable mare, who'd fallen in love with 
Abarsis' Trs horse and pranced around the paddock with her tail straight up for him in immodest 
display of heat, but ignored Niko's sable stallion as if he were a gelding or a mule, was making 
matters worse. 

He had just decided to send Jihan with Shamshi, over what would doubtless be Grillo's most 
vehement objections, up to Mygdon, and was reining her around to find the Froth Daughter and 
make final his decree, when a wind whipped up and the day (which had been mild and gently 
fading) went dark in his vicinity. 

His horse stopped still, shivering. He slid down and, feet firmly on the ground, fist upon his 
swordhilt, looked all around: "All right. What now? Who or what wants a word with me?" 
Somewhere there must be a land where Nature ruled completely, where things like day and night 
and life and death could be counted upon to proceed in an orderly, not arbitrary, fashion. But in this 
world his curse had consigned him to, beyond the truism that all things were happening by strife and 
necessity, nothing could be said for certainnot that day would come or night would follow, or that 
sleep would ever be his, though lately war had tired him more than once it had. 

There were bushes scattered about, their edges obfuscated, and trees off farther in the murky 
dark, not night or day but dusky like a natural setting or rising of the sun. It was his favorite time 
when it came naturally. Right now, out of sequence, it brought back all the disgust and revulsion he 
felt toward manipulations of the natural order he'd studied so diligently in his youth. But this time, not 
even his despite was pure, for he'd consorted willingly with mages, broken a rule he'd obeyed for 
centuries. A part of his mind told him he deserved this, whatever it should turn out to be. 

What it turned out to be was Akelon, the very lord of dreams, who came riding over gently 
swelling ground, much more vital and substantially supernal than he'd been when last they met. 

The entelechy wore a simple cloak of no color as if his mantle had been woven from the peculiar 
light which swathed them both. The horse he rode was like the sable Tempus held; the two beasts 
exchanged familiar greetings, and the lord of dream and shadow raised a hand to Tempus as if it 
were perfectly natural that Akelon would manifest, his thick black and silver hair waving in a soft 
breeze, his cloudspun eyes fierce and too near at hand for the distance yet between them. 

"Greetings, Ash," he said when the entelechy dismounted. 

"Riddler. Blessings on thee and thine." The dream lord extended a hand and Tempus had to 
shake it; when he let it go he felt more peaceful, as if even the mad cosmos he lived in had shed 
disorder and all his troubles bled away. 

It was a spell, he thought, and shook it from him, saying carefully: "You look well." 

"And you look tired. Have you thought about my offer?" 

"My answer is still the same." 


"In that case, immortal sufferer, let us lessen at least one of your burdens. Your sister's here yet, 
I must assume." 

"In that case, immortal sufferer, let us lessen at least one of your burdens. Your sister's here yet, 
I must assume." 

"Are you telling me you'll interfere with a pact solemnly undertaken? She has a year to spend 
with me. It was for your sake, and not hers, I gave her leave to visit and lend her particular sort of 
aid." 

"For me? I didn't know you cared so much. Or was it for young Nikodemos? That soul, I'll fight 
to keep unfettered. He's told me he wants no part of dispensations from any higher plane or sphere 
or what-have-you. Is that clear?" 

"Sufficiently, for now. And yes, I covet Niko's fealty. But you yourself know that a man cannot 
be brought to high estate against his will." 

"He wills it not." 

"You said that." 

"That's right. I did. I'm saying it again." 

"I could grant you sleep, one night's rest in thousands of sleepless nights. I'd just like to talk to 
him." 

"Absolutely not." 

The dream lord sighed. "Whatever you wish. But Cime conies back with me." 

"She's taken coin from my hand and not yet given service." 

The dream lord smiled. "She would try that. We'll have her give it back. Release her from her 
bond. Unless, that is, you want the two of themCime and Jinanto try to deal with. I wouldn't, 
but the choice is up to you." 

"She's my sister. I can't consign her to" 

Akelon eyed him sidelong: "Consider it medicine for her ills. Without my help, she'll languish 
with that curse forever. She's never quite grown up. Children often resist medicine." 

Tempus thought that over. "I'll get back my coin and leave the two of you alone. The rest is up 
to you." 

"Good." He smiled and a break came in the dusky sky; sunrays burst on through. Then the 
dimness blew away and they walked in bright, pure sunshine. "A word of warning: that boy you 
have, Ajami's so-called son, is half a wizard. Remember Abarsis, and be careful with him. What he 
becomes is partly up to you, Riddler." 

"Up to his father, or the man who claims to be so. You're telling me that Adrastus doesn't 
know?" 

"Suspects, sleepless one. Suspects. By Mygdonian law, he'd have to slay his wife as an 
adulteress and put the boy to death So you see, as human matters are, it's delicate. It needs a 

hand like yours to" 

"I have no patience with children. He goes to Mygdon; that is that." 

"As you wish, again. Now, take me to your sister. And let's try to avoid meeting Jihan, if we 

can." 
Tempus grinned: at least they had something more than overlong existence in common; even 


Akelon feared the Froth Daughter's righteous wrath. 

Akelon feared the Froth Daughter's righteous wrath. 

"She's in there with him, says she'll heal his eyesight, but Strat's not up to fending off" Crit 
paused, looked up for the first time, saw Akelon and made a warding sign. His hand dug in his belt 
pouch, and Tempus, who knew his first officer quite well, knew Crit was fingering his good luck 
charms. "Well," he finished lamely, "she's more a woman than any of us quite know how to 
handle, my lords" He raked his hair with spread fingers: "Going in? You'd better knock first." 

Tempus did that. 

Straton came to the door, flushed and disheveled: "Your sister. Yes, commander right this 
way. I've got to go find Crit at any rate. She was seeing if she might alleviate this blurriness I see 
close-up or very far away" 

"It's fine, Straton. Thank you. Crit's right outside." 

Then Strat had hurried past them, and Tempus stepped in first. 

She was lacing up the Ilsig doeskins she yet affected, breathing heavily, smiling just a bit. "Now, 
brother, let's not argue. A woman spurned takes comfort where and when she" Seeing 
Akelon, she scrambled up, her hands before her. 

"I'll take that gold Imperial I gave you," Tempus said quite low. 

"You beast! You wouldn't! Oh please" Then she seemed to quiver and to blink away the 
extra brightness in her eyes. "Here." She fumbled in her belt and slapped the coin into his 
outstretched palm. "Satisfied? Stay with your storm-sprung slut. And may you soon have need of 
me again. Now, go! Get out of here, traitor! Leave, and leave me to my fate, as you always do and 
ever have done. It's a lucky thing, after all, that you don't sleep, for all the wrongs you've done 
would surely make your dreams a horror" 

"Silence best becomes you," Akelon interrupted and, amazingly, Cime shut her mouth. 

"Good fortune, Riddler," Akelon wished him. "As you said so long ago: 'War is common and 
right is strife." War rightly, and may your Stepsons flourish, and your might prevail." 

Then, in an eyeblink, both the dream lord and Tempus' sister were no more. 

Alone, he sat down on Straton's unmade bunk to reconsider matters in the light of what had just 
transpired. With Cime gone, Jihan was not a major problemhis Stepsons weren't thrilled to have 
her bunking in among them, but whatever he did was accepted without question by Sacred 
Banders, and the others took their cue from how the pairs behaved. Perhaps Grille was right in 
wanting to keep Shamshi as collateral until Adrastus came through with all the aid he'd promised. 
He'd keep Jihan close at hand (the boy was fond of her and she of him), and they'd confer on what 
to do about the child. 

When he came out of there, a real dusk was just beginning, and Crit was loitering by the 
threshold: "Everything all right, Commander?" 

"Perfect, Critias. And with you?" 

"Strat's visionhe says it's better." Grit's cynical grin flashed. "I didn't think that was really what 
she meant to do with him" 

"I know." Tempus, as well as Crit, felt uncomfortable. 

"Cime?" Crit asked, peering beyond Tempus, into the shadowed, empty room. "The dream 
lord?" 


"Gone where dreams go and waking men can never follow, let's hope." 
"Let's," Critias agreed. 


